


Guests Are Sacred or The Craziest Time In Brienne Tarth’s Wretched Life

by Zeta_Mei



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Book Canon Age Gap, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Just an excuse to put them all together, Modern AU, Slow Burn, The plot is evanescent, They're a bit older - Brienne is 22 - Jon is 20 - Joffrey is seventeen, Twincest (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25783897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeta_Mei/pseuds/Zeta_Mei
Summary: Brienne has no time to think. She doesn't want to. It’s all so gross, squalid, and sad.She seizes the lighter from the boy’s fingers before he can even try … anything his insane mind is urging him to do - and runs back home, holding Joffrey’s trembling hand in hers, Gods only knows why.“If you promise me not to set my house afire, you can stay, for the night or until the things will seem a bit less messy, ok?”__________________One day, Joffrey becomes Brienne's guest.The first, and the most problematic one, probably.
Relationships: Brienne of Tarth & Joffrey Baratheon, Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow & Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 54
Kudos: 96





	1. Guest n. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, she spots the lad’s father and hurries towards him.
> 
> He must have wed young, or perhaps it’s the extreme wealth to make him that handsome and young-looking. He smiles at her, the same identical grin of his son, so damned white.

She reaches him and drags him to the ground, easily. He’s tall, for his age, but lissome and somehow indolent, not a great runner. They roll together in the grass with a soft _thump_ and a couple of _grunts_ , and the lad grunts even when he shoves away the curls which are blinding him.

Fair haired, green eyed and smart, when he wants. The boy has everything, he may really be whatever he wants… and not the asshole he is. _That_ is making Brienne really furious, more, much more than the umpteenth window glass he has broken with such care, or the amiable graffiti he has left with an indelible crimson spray on her porch. 

“Why? Why you have to be such a…rowdy?”

He strains his lips in a pouty manner, that makes Brienne almost forgot it’s unfair to hit a smaller one.

“Why? Why me? Why my poor house?”, she goes on, on the verge of yelling, o maybe of crying. 

“Because you’re the only stupid that never complains to daddy, that’s why, freak. And your hovel is the ugliest of the avenue, even if it’s far, far more pretty than his idiotic owner”, he spits, and grins. The lad grins. Perfect white teeth in display only for her. What a privilege.

At twenty-two, Brienne Tarth, more than six feet of mannish muscles, freckles and horse-teeth, should know better than confront herself with a sixteen or seventeen who is known everywhere to be the wicked, deplorable heir of both Baratheon and Lannister dynasties. She curses herself under her breath, helps the guy on his feet, and strides towards the lucky parents’ mansion, with green grass stains all over her white shirt and jeans, and with the embarrassing flush she always has, and can’t avoid. About a thing, the lad, Joffrey, is perfectly right. She has been very stupid not to have asked the repay of all those broken glasses. Brienne’s not rich. Well, her father is, but she doesn’t want to depend on him and, however, his wealth is nothing compared to the guy’s family. His grandfather still lives in a castle, on the top of the hill. The Rock, they call it, and they say some Lannister stole it from a certain lord Casterly, in times of old.

“Let me”, the boy is doing his best to be annoying. Her arm and hand are soon red with scratches, and she suspects that he’s trying to make her turn, only to spit in her broad face. Brienne ignores his insults, but she’s panting a bit when they arrive to Joffrey’s home, quite on the top of the hill. The gate, golden and black, is already too opulent, and the garden is so perfect and tidy that she feels suddenly uncomfortable. She’s clearly ill-fitting here, but she’s used to be ill-fitting practically everywhere, so…

Making her way, Brienne can’t help but feel a bit sorry for the guy, now, but it’s for his best, in the end. There’s a small group having a drink in a summer sitting room - because that’s a true sitting room, not just some deck chairs to relax on the lawn. Four men, all very rich and important ones, judging from the way they glance at her. No one resembles to Joffrey.

Finally, she spots the lad’s father and hurries towards him.

He must have wed young, or perhaps it’s the extreme wealth to make him that handsome and young-looking. He smiles at her, the same identical grin of his son, so damned white. She’s really lucky, today. And horribly sweated and flustered.

She swallows. Just a few words and she’s done. She swallows a second and a third time, then gets to explain everything, in a breath.

The lovely, responsible dad starts guffawing. Even the boy is laughing hard. The sweat is cooling on the back of her neck now that she notices the four men approaching to them - wonderful, the freak has had her show once more, and for free.

“What’s so funny, Jaime?”, says the big, massive one. He has a great black beard and he’s tall like Brienne, inch more, inch less. He’s already ready for laughing, in truth he seems on his cups, but it can’t be. It’s Sunday morning. Maybe he’s ill, the poor one, that’s why his friends look at him with concern. They must be only friends, even if the shortest one is old enough to be the huge man’s father, and has light blue eyes, similar to his. 

“I don’t think it’s going to be so hilarious, Robert. Not with Joffrey involved,” replies a bald man, and his voice is so stern, that Brienne wonders if he has ever been able to smile once in his life.

“Come on, bro. Let me hope, for a while.”

“Brother, not _bro_. Or Stannis. I do like my name.”

“You do like spoiling the fun. Always.”

“Stannis, Bobby, please. You’re in presence of a lady”, says softly the man with grey eyes and a pale, long face.

 _One who doesn’t like the sun too much,_ Brienne thinks, and feels ashamed and grateful, in the same time. She’s actually the caricature of a lady, but there was no hint of mockery in the man’s calm voice. Yet the only thing she desires is to come back home, now. The guy can’t stop laughing, and maybe that’s a good thing or he may throw other shit on her, and she has ridiculed herself enough for today. For all the week.

“So, what’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing Robert”, the daddy-of-the-year sneers. “The wench, here, complains about Joff breaking some of the windows of the old house on the river, the shambling one hidden at the bottom at the avenue.”

“The Evenstar’s house! You’re his daughter, sweetling?”, asks her the bearded man.

“I told you it wasn’t amusing”, adds the bald one.

The other two look down at their feet. That’s kind from them, because she feels really ugly, now, splotched and frowning. _Wench. Sweetling. No end to humiliations, today._

“I am Selwyn Tarth’s daughter, yes. With your leave, _sers_ ”, she answers, a bit too stiff. She’s done, she’d like to be done forever with the Baratheon-Lannister heir or whoever.

The Baratheon-Lannister heir thinks otherwise, unfortunately. “Oh, no, no, no. The dumb giantess has mistaken nuncle Jaime for my father! And that’s amusing, isn’t it, nuncle Stan?”

“ _Uncle Stannis_ , please, Joffrey. And, no, I don’t find it amusing. Not at all.”

The last civil words. Then, the pandemonium.

Brienne has no time to think. She doesn't want to. It’s all so gross, squalid, and sad.

She seizes the lighter from the boy’s fingers before he can even try … anything his insane mind is urging him to do - and runs back home, holding Joffrey’s trembling hand in hers, Gods only knows why.

“If you promise me not to set my house afire, you can stay, for the night or until the things will seem a bit less messy, ok?”

The boy nods, his face more threatening than the roaring lion, which is glaring at Brienne from her own porch. She feels really an incurable dumb, but there he is, fair haired, green eyed, and lost.

“You can have the guestroom, downstairs”, she hears herself murmur, and curses herself, but only in her mind. Joff has already listened to too many bad words… and _things_ , for one day. “Now, mind your step while entering, and help me arrange something for lunch, please.”

The jerk lifts his medium finger in mid-air. The glorious banner of their newborn sodality. The strangest sodality ever.

_Brienne's river house_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest n. 1 : Joffrey Baratheon Lannister
> 
> Big guest room, downstairs.


	2. Guests nn. 2, 3 and 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t make that face, freak, you’re even uglier when you’re nervous. It’s surely the dwarf. He always sends the dwarf, to settle the chaos I create”, Joffrey smirks, but he’s tensing - and the kitchen is full of knifes. Perfect.

“Your coffee sucks, freak.”

“You’re not allowed to drink coffee under my roof. That’s milk with chocolate chips.”

“Your chocomilk sucks. Everything you make sucks. Like this damn’ house.”

“You’re welcome, Joffrey.”

It’s just their first breakfast together, and Brienne feels already very tired. Her _damn’ house_ is still intact, more or less, the smell of smoke and ashes comes from Robert Baratheon’s mansion. It hasn’t been Joffrey, though. He has been asleep all night long, gritting his teeth and kicking the sheets, like a little good psyco. She pours her chocomilk down the sink, because it’s really awful, and yawns, slightly nauseated.

***

Jon is a true friend, maybe the only one she has. A bit sullen, but he has his reasons. Family issues. When he peeps out from the kitchen glass door, he looks worried, so Brienne thinks the police has come, finally, to arrest her for kidnapping a minor. A monster, but still a minor.

She takes a deep breath, hoping only that Thormund won’t make a scene when the police officers will handcuff her.

Handcuffs are one of the red-haired man’s obsessions, along with ropes, straps-on and, unfortunately, Brienne herself. Why - she doesn’t know. She’s homely and clumsy, and before talking with him she didn’t even know the words 'bondage' or “pegging”, let’s figure the hundred gadgets people may buy to _have a walk on the wild side_ , as Thormund has explained to her, licking his lips, the very first day they met. Yet, he is a great worker, a skilled builder, and a very close friend of Jon, since the year they spent together traveling in the deep north. And they’re doing a wonderful work, with her mother’s old house, and for a low, very friendly, price.

“Don’t make that face, freak, you’re even uglier when you’re nervous. It’s surely the dwarf. He always sends the dwarf, to settle the chaos I create”, Joffrey smirks, but he’s tensing - and the kitchen is full of knifes. Perfect.

“Well, it’s a very small envoy, in truth”, Jon admits. “But looks dangerous, like an ice spider.”

The lad glances at her triumphant. “He is. Dangerous, and cunning. Tyrion Lannister, graduated at 21, one of the best lawyers of all the country. He must be, or Lord Tywin would already have got rid of him. You’re cooked, freak.”

“Lord Tywin?”

“My mother’s father”, Joffrey shrugs. “Everybody calls him that way in the family. The Lannister family, I mean. They’re not my family, no more, and I don’t wanna be dragged to the Rock. Lord Tywin will give me another harsh lesson, I don’t wanna go.” His voice is black like the shirt he wears. It was part of Brienne’s collection of Jedi-shirts, before the lad decided it was lovelier with a dozen pretty gashes in the front.

***

Tyrion Lannister has the strangest eyes she has ever seen. One green, one black. Unreadable. Unpredictable. Mildly unsettling, and he knows it.

He talks, so well, so fluent, and Brienne listens, meekly. The air is sweet and mild, under the porch. Thormund spies at them, just for a few minutes before coming back to work, so it’s not _so_ creepy. The river sings, and she likes its song. Instinctively, she likes Joffrey’s uncle, too. Not his question, though, so she says _no,_ and her cheeks go aflame. She feels always a bad girl when she says _no_ , thanks to her governess, Roelle.

“Miss Tarth, Brienne – can I call you Brienne? I’m afraid I’ve been misunderstood.”

“Brienne is ok, _Tyrion_. No misunderstandings, yet. The boy stays.” Now his green eye seems laughing, the black one seems ready to devour her, or maybe it’s simply glaring at his bodyguard, a very tanned man who’s sneering in not a great professional way. “Joffrey is seventeen and he has the right to choose for himself,” she concludes.

Mr. Lannister sighs. “I see my nephew feels at ease here.” He nods at the crimson lion. “It’s Joff’s hand, isn’t it? Not bad, not bad, at all. Yet, Brienne, you don’t know…”

“I know nothing, you’re right”, she bits her lower lip. “Nothing but what you’ve just told me, and some other irrelevant details. I was there, when Mr. Robert Baratheon and Mr. Jaime Lannister, his wife’s twin _and_ lover, became an only confused beast growling on the grass. From what they were yelling, Joffrey’s uncle, Mr. Stannis Baratheon, was aware of the _affair_ since a while, along with the other family _friend,_ Mr. Jon Arryn of the Eyrie. They found even the proves of the infidelity, with DNA tests.”

“They’re sure about Myrcella and Tommen, not about Joffrey. His test was inconclusive.”

“The poor, unlucky Sherlocks”, she adds, and the man smirks, but there’s nothing to smirk about. She’s outraged, Mr. Lannister should be outraged, too, not so calm. “You knew.”

He raises and eyebrow. “It was evident, for all people using a brain, at least. Robert prefers using his muscles, or, better, he preferred, before Cersei reduced him to a fat drunkard.”

Brienne blinks. Maybe her instinct has gone to rot. She raises on her too big feet. “Thanks for your visit, Tyrion. If you’d like to see your nephew…”

“I’d like to explain you better the situation”, Mr. Lannister waves a hand, and the bodyguard taps his fingers on the smooth briefcase ensured by a little chain to his wrist. Even his fingers are tattooed.

“It’s all plain, thank you. I’m stupid, but not that stupid, I can use a smartphone. On the net there’s nothing about your sister and your brother’s _affair_ , and just a few lines, about the big _accidental_ fire that has devastated Robert Baratheon’s house, in the night. I’ll bet you’ve already signed some agreement of sorts, to keep all confidential, in the time Joffrey was here, receiving no calls. Not even one call. Now, _I_ haven’t signed anything, nor I will sign anything. Don’t worry, I won’t say a thing, for Joffrey’s sake, and his siblings’. But he stays, sorry if this upset you. Goodbye Mr. Lannister. Goodbye Mr…?”, she turns to greet the tanned man.

“Blackwater, Miss Legs. Well done, it’s rare to see the dwarf fucked up.”

“Bronn!” Mr. Lannister shouts, but the bodyguard just widens his smile. A wolfish smile.

“This time the Lord will have your head, Half-man, and I’ll lose my work, and I have my new Harley to pay”, he stops just an inch from Brienne. “Come on, Legs, it’s the best work I’ve ever had, take the money, and give us back the lion cub. Pleeease. I’m such a kind, thankful guy, with a nice swimming pool, and I’m so good in rubbing sunscreen on pale _maidens_.”

She gapes at the scum, and at the red fury running over him.

***

“Ouch. It hurts”, the red fury complains, when Brienne begins cleaning the cut on his eyebrow.

“I’m glad if it hurts. You’ve ravaged my porch.”

“I told you there’s true wilding blood in me, honey.”

“We’ll rebuilt it anew, Brienne”, breaks in Jon. His eyelid is swollen and already purple. It matches well with the grey of his irises.

“The porch isn't the problem, Jon”, she chews her lip, and feels the taste of blood. “Thormund, you can’t assault a man like that.”

“He called you _Legs_. Nobody can call my honey bee…”

“I’m not your honey bee, Thormund. Be still, now”, it comes out sharper than she intents it to be, and she repents immediately.

“I like when you give me orders”, the impossible builder says, with an unwelcome spark in his glance. She would gladly punch him, but he’s already got enough punches. That Bronn was really a professional, she has struggled to pull Thor and Jon away from his claws, and Brienne is black belt in judo. “What about…”

“The answer is no.”

“Let me end the proposal, at least, honey bee.”

“The answer is still no.” She wants only to end this discussion, put something scarcely edible on the table for the lad, and sink into her soft, very soft mattress for a nap.

“Brie, what Thor is saying is that we’re going to stay, here, at nights. In case that jailbird will come back.”

“No, no, no. Mr. Blackwater won’t come back, and he has already knocked you down, the both of you,” she replies. A gang of convicts is less scaring than the perspective of Thormund free in her house while she’s sleeping.

“That won’t happen again, honey bee. Not with Umber at our side. They don’t call him the Greatjon for the size of his…”

“Enough, Thor”, Jon cuts. “Please, Brienne, it will help us saving some money. Umber needs a roof, too, and he’s one of the finest carpenters I know.” He has _that_ expression. Dereck Zoolander has the _Blue Steel_ , Jon Snow has the _Black Crow_. He seems really a mourning bird, a bit too grown, or too early grown. Yet it works - on Brienne, at least.

“The guesthouse... is shabby, filthy, and one of the two bathrooms doesn’t work, but it’s yours, if you want,” she surrenders, and it’s not that bad, knowing to have Jon so near. Joffrey is… a mystery. She knows only that he lad likes fires, and detest her cooking, but she detests her cooking, too. “Thanks, guys”, she whispers, and Jon smiles. He’s only twenty, but he seems older, because he rarely smiles, and when he does, Brienne’s heart always fills with warmth.

“Oh, honey bee, I’m so eager to come living here. Is it true you’re still a _maiden_?”

Swallowing hard, Brienne trusts the first-aid kit in Jon’s hands, and flees towards the door taking to the garden. At least, Joffrey isn’t in the surroundings to mock her splotched skin.

“But I like your being a virgin, honey bee!” she can hear, before slamming the glass door behind her.

From the stunned look he has on his brazenly comely face, even Mr. Lannister has heard Thormund’s last words.

“Th-this is a private property”, she stammers, and blushes on her blush. She dislikes it, any part of it. The blushing. The situation. The man staring at her.

“You should put a warning sign, then, like a good, industrious _honey bee._ ” He isn’t grinning, and his eyes are a deeper green. About the rest, he’s an older version than Joffrey – only Joffrey isn’t that attractive, he’s only a teen, and somehow Brienne is pretty sure he won’t ever become _that_ handsome, with _that_ astonishing perfection. The man lifts his hands, and even his fingers are long and elegant, like a pianist, while hers are thick and calloused. She hates Jaime Lannister. “I just want to see the boy, wench.”

 _Wench._ She _detests_ him.

“I’m no boy, and I don’t wanna see you, _daddy_ ”, Joffrey screams from the studio upstairs, then it starts raining. A warm, unequivocal rain on the intruder’s golden hair, and, some drops, even on the pale straw she attempts to comb in a passable manner every fucking day of her wretched life.

It’s only 11:40 a.m.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest n. 2 : Jon Snow  
> Guest n. 3 : Thormund Giantsbane  
> Guest n. 4 : Jon 'Greatjon' Umber
> 
> All three in the guesthouse.
> 
> *** Thormund's passion for 'pegging' is a homage to a very original and nice fic "Thank you, Mr. Giantsbane" written by escapisthero  
> With the permission of the author, here's the link:  
> [”https://archiveofourown.org/works/20862317”](url)


	3. Guests nn. 5 and 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne ‘Legs’ Tarth. Twenty-two. Skilled with numbers. Current occupation: lending her clothes to the most gorgeous man of all Westeros.

_Brienne ‘Legs’ Tarth. Twenty-two. Skilled with numbers. Current occupation: lending her clothes to the most gorgeous man of all Westeros._

She wonders how many followers she may get, if she twits it. A billion, if she includes a link with some pictures of the man in question under the only shower working in all the house.

A pity she isn’t taking pictures, a pity she’s not even on Twitter, a pity she’s waiting her turn smelling like a sewer, a pity he’s only the most despicable man ever. Involved in some gruesome scandal when he was still a teen - Brienne has googled out, refusing to read more than a couple of titles. Fathering two or three children on his own sister is enough to put Mr. Jaime Lannister on the top of her list of _unwelcome people_. 

“Where’s Joff?”, he asks, and his hair is darker, now that is wet, but still glimmering.

“Gone for a ride.” On her mountain bike. She hopes to see it again. She hopes to see the lad again - maybe. Brienne's 100% sure that she wants back the bike, about the boy, ehm. It's not 100%. 

“When Joff will come back, would you ask him if he can call me? This is my number. Please.”

 _Please_ is such a nice word, yet it sounds strange on his lips. Brienne nods, and looks at her mother’s portrait. She was beautiful, with eyes the color of the sea, and gentle, in Galladon’s memories. She has no memories of her mother, and only a few of Galladon, but one of them is tied to that room, her room, and she’s angry that he’s here – it’s stupid, childish, unworthy, yet Brienne regrets having allowed him to use the bathroom between her room and Gal’s.

He must have sensed something, because he leaves without a word, leaving only steam, and some waterdrops on the mosaic floor.

***

The Greatjon is taller and bigger than her, and arrives with a fridge, already full of bottles of ale. “For the workers”, he says. He carries it with no apparent effort till the guesthouse, singing a horrible song about an unfortunate bear.

The Smalljon is twenty-four, newly divorced, nearly as tall as his father, the Greatjon, but more talkative - and he’s a fantastic plumber. He manages to fix the shower in the bathroom next to Joffrey’s room, in the afternoon. Obviously, it’s just a temporary arrangement, every tube in her house needs to be checked, and eventually dismantled and assembled again, but the bearded guy’s enthusiast of the ancient tiles and he promises her that he will preserve them - and the cost seems reasonable, since he’s is going to live there.

Brienne’s so excited for the tiles that she burns the roast. Nobody complains, except a girl with lumpy hair.

“Hey, that sucks”, the girl says, and Brienne can’t help but dart her eyes all around the dining room to see if Joffrey is there, recording with his golden I-Phone the bovine expression she has when she’s confused.

“Arya.” It’s Jon’s voice, kind but firm. Of course, this Arya is too short and skinny to be one of the Umbers, and she’s got Jon’s same eyes. _One of his half-sisters, surely._ He has mentioned them, more than once, and always fondly, but he doesn’t like to speak of his family - his father’s family - and he has chosen his mother’s last name. Brienne knows it, and she knows he’s a good guy, too. The rest is not relevant.

“Well. It’s the truth,” the cook confesses, and the girl laughs, Jon musses her brown hair, the Umbers starts singing a dreadful song about a serial killer disguised like a rat, and Thormund orders hamburgers with a few clicks. Brienne insists to pay, she must, board and lodging are on her shoulders, a pact is a pact, and the ginger man resigns himself to the fact. He’s kind in his own way, he burps soundly and still calls her _honey bee_ , but at least he never mentions his favorite toys at table.

Maybe it’s because of the girl. Brienne isn’t so certainly about it. Arya can’t be more than thirteen, but she looks smart, surely smarter than the giantess had been, at her same age. After dinner, she’d want to follow her brother outside, and that’s sweet, but the guesthouse is really too dusty and crowded. It takes a while, but, in the end, she accepts the bunk bed in the little room upstairs.

When the skinny girl climbs to the top bunk in one of Jon’s striped pajamas, too large and loose, Brienne smiles, hiding her crooked teeth with a hand. She smiles a little less, when Arya asks her if she can paint the walls all black, and decorate them with some nice drawings, like swords, daggers, maces and so on. 

“We’ll see. Goodnight, Arya.”

“Goodnight, Brie.”

On the morrow, she must have a little conversation with Jon. By now, she clears the table, all but Joffrey’s plate.

***

He comes back at 2 p.m. Whole, apparently.

Brienne has kept her fingers on the mobile, ready to call the City Watch, so long a time, that she has pins and needles in her hand, while she stares at her bike. It’s electric blue and shocking pink, now. _Not that bad_ , suggests an impudent imp in her mind. She decisively needs her bed.

The lad grimaces when he follows her inside and sees the hamburger, the salad and the slice of strawberry pie, on the linen tablecloth.

“Spare your junk, freak, my belly is already full,” he boasts, then takes the pie, furtively, and she feigns not to have seen.

“Goodnight Joffrey.”

“Go bugger yourself, you dumb. Don’t dare to stare at me while I’m abed, tonight.”

 _Dumb is a bit better than freak, and, however, the crumbs on the sheets will avenge me._ Brienne’s lips curves in a smile. She waits, and steals just a quick glance of the lad, snoring softly like a child, before climbing the stairs.

"Joffrey is in his bed. Seems quiet", she texts, then ignores the sudden buzzing of her mobile, and sinks her head in the pillow.

The girl, Arya, snores much louder than Joff. _Adenoids? I have to tell Jon,_ Brienne thinks, or already dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest n. 5 : Jon 'Smalljon' Umber  
> Sharing a room with his father, in the guesthouse.
> 
> Guest. n. 6: Arya, Jon's little sister  
> The bunk bed room, upstairs.


	4. Guests nn. 7 and 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is going to die at twenty, probably. Very probably. Murdered with a candlestick, in the lounge, where the crazy queen of all human cases is so pleasantly busy in talking with Arya about the legendary heroine Nymeria, that she hardly notices that Brienne is going away, yanking Jon.

“It’s complicated, Brie. Arya is a bit complicated, too,” Jon says, and grimaces. The coffee's fault, she presumes – she hopes, at least. Arya’s mother is the lovely stepmother that has managed to dispatch a sixteen Jon to the Haunted Forest. Alone, afoot, hitch-hiking. “I’m sorry she has woke everybody at dawn.”

An hour _before_ dawn, to be correct. It was still dark, and ' _the moon was high and full_ '. That’s why Arya has felt the need of make some acrobatics on the roof, and owl to the sky - or so the girl has told her, beaming, before answering to Joffrey’s insults with a very precise kick. Brienne doubts that the boy will be able to have children, one day, but maybe that’s for the best. 

“I need to talk with her parents, you know, Jon,” she replies, and sighs. “I need a lawyer, too. A good one.”

“I’ve a sort of cousin. She’s very good, and motivated. You’ll like her, Brie, and you’ll like the way I’ll arrange Arya’s room, it's a promise.”

***

“It’s complicated, Miss Tarth.”

A bird is prettily singing hidden among the branches of the old oak. Brienne looks for the little, brilliant head of a golden-crowned sparrow, but she sees only a mockingbird. Appropriate.

She turns again at Mr. Eddard Stark, and feels a complete idiot. It’s blatant: the same grey eyes. She should have recognized him, at the Baratheon’s mansion. Even the face is long and sullen, like Jon’s - and Arya’s, too. There are lines on his brow, and the man seems truly uncomfortable, walking slowly underneath the trees. “Arya… I fear we have been too harsh with her, but her sister Sansa was inconsolable about her hair, her beautiful auburn hair. With Jon… Arya has always been happy, with Jon. I wonder if she can stay, one week, no more.”

“She can.”

“May I reimburse...?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Stark,” Brienne interrupts him, and hesitates. She shouldn’t ask, and perhaps he doesn’t even know. Yet. “Sorry. A thing. I-I wonder if you heard about the fire, at the Baratheons’…”

The man looks straight in her eyes. “It has really been an accident, Brienne. The kids were at the Rock, thankfully. The housemaids had fled. Cersei was acting crazy and smoking, Bobby was drunk, crashing bottles of Wildfire and other spirits against the furniture... They were both, well, distracted, and when a neighbor called the firefighters, it was too late to save the house”, he pauses. “About the lad, I’m glad he’s here. Just hope he won’t collide with Arya. Not too hard, at least.”

She hopes the same. Hope is for free, isn't it?

The kind man exchanges a brief look with his natural son, before leaving. Brienne has never missed her father so much, and even Bellegere, the exotic beauty he has brought to Tarth from his last travel in Bravos doesn’t look so bad, after all. She wants only her father’s money, but not all, and only for a while. She’s always been kind with Brienne and she’s aware that Selwyn Tarth will never marry again, or disinherit his blood, even if his blood is a weird girl with the tendency of putting herself into troubles.

Brienne hurries. The weird girl has no time to waste in brooding, now, she has a lot of guests for lunch, and for dinner. The two Umbers count for four mouths, or ten, if it’s about ale.

***

Brienne’s shopping cart is full, her wallet empty. Even the credit card has disappeared. The cashier looks at her freckles drowning in embarrassment, and she’d like to be swallowed by the earth.

“Troubles, miss?” A guy about twenty-five smiles at her, an honest smile in a plain face.

“She’s got no money, and we’re all waiting,” complains an old man, coughing. Brienne has already seen him, somewhere.

 _In Ms Stokeworth’s garden_ , she realizes with terror.

Mrs Stokeworth is a nice crone who often gives gossip-and-tea parties to find a convenient match for his younger daughter - Brienne's _exploit_ will be served soon along with patries and cream cakes.

The guy brings out his Visa, and before she can protest, the annoyed cashier passes it, and Hyle is already escorting Brienne and the heavy bags to her car. Hyle Hunter is the guy's name. She likes it, it’s a normal name, not pompous like Ja-i-me-Lan-ni-ster, and when the short guy asks her for a coffee on the morrow, she ducks down and he takes it for an approving nod.

She has a date, and this is crazy. If they don’t jail her for having killed Joffrey, obviously.

***

Or for having killed Joffrey’s father, or uncle, or whatever.

He’s waiting at the gate, which is too rusty to work well, so she lets it always open. Brienne needs a good smith, and she’ll call one, when she will be able to afford also this cost. The old house maintenance is draining the incomes her mother left her, and she trembles at the thought of her miserable credit card in Joffrey’s hand.

What decisively Brienne doesn’t need is Jaime Lannister’s piercing glance, nor his smirks.

“Your clothes, wench.” She takes her stupid rags, and shivers when his fingers brush hers. “I wish I…”, he tries to say something, but Brienne has already closed the window of her second-hand car. A pink station-wagon, with blue lightnings flashing here and there – hideous and ridiculous like her, that’s why it was so cheap.

***

“Don’t be such dramatic, freak. I just borrowed a thousand dragons.”

 _A thousand dragons._ Brienne hyperventilates, and has to seat.

“I bought just some spray paint cans, a couple of jeans, and running shoes. Your t-shirts are acceptable, with the proper adjustments.”

Her entire wardrobe is not worth a thousand dragons, and she must return Hyle his money. She must, notwithstanding what the gentleman has told her, almost awkwardly, stroking the little scar on his chin.

Brienne can’t help but stare at Joffrey like a ruminant. Effectively, now that the boy’s so near, the original tank top he’s wearing resembles so much to Brienne’s blouse, the good one she uses the rare times she goes to the University, to speak with Professor Aemon. Not that it’s truly necessary to be formal with Professor Aemon – he’s a treasure, and he’s blind – but it is her best blouse. It _was_ her best blouse.

“Have you seen how I Improved your sad mountain bike?”, Joffrey adds, his cat-eyes bright with malice, and something else. Expectation? Desire of her approval? It’s an absurd idea, and Brienne’s only desire is to reduce Joffrey’s grin a bleeding ruin, or throw him into the river.

“A nice work”, she says, instead, and it’s not a lie, in the end. “Just ask my permission, next time, Joff.”

He glows, and giggles. “You should see how I improved a certain Harley, too.” Brienne’s quick only with numbers, so it takes her a while to understand. When acknowledge and panic spread on her face in a hundred shades of pink, red and crimson, the reckless vandal frowns, _vexed._ “That scum called you _Legs_.”

“You call me freak.”

“That’s different, freak. I can, the others can’t. My roof, my rules.” She drags him again on the grass, and the reeds sing in choir _freak, freak, freak_.

***

The shower washes away the dirt, but her thoughts are there, to stay.

She’s still dripping and staring at the blank, when Jon calls her downstairs. Her heart jumps in her throat with such a violence, that she wonders if it’s possible to die at twenty-two for a heart attack.

***

Jon is going to die at twenty, probably. Very probably. Murdered with a candlestick, in the lounge, where the crazy queen of all human cases is so pleasantly busy in talking with Arya about the legendary heroine Nymeria, that she hardly notices that Brienne is going away, yanking Jon.

“You promised me a lawyer. A good one”, she barks at Jon in the hall, and he looks astonished.

“No, I promised you a good job in Arya’s room. And a good, motivated person. Daenerys is a good person.”

“The same Daenerys you’ve been dating for a while, and who has left you for a riding instructor.” Brienne rolls her eyes, and see spiderwebs and fissures in the plaster. The house is a mess, her current state of mind is messier. “Good Gods, Jon, you told me you were going to call a cousin of yours.”

“Dany is, actually.”

“Your cousin?” She can’t be more bewildered than this.

“My aunt, Brie. But I didn’t know, when we were dating,” his eyes are lowered, and Brienne feels guilty. She shouldn't have stuck her crooked nose in Jon’s wounds. They both sprawl in cushioned chaises too old to bear their weight without making a menacing sound of warning. They’re silent, but it’s a welcomed silence, and ends when Jon huffs - an amused huff, quite… ironical.

Jon Snow. Ironical.

She smiles, and can’t avoid it becoming a sneer, and can’t avoid showing her teeth, because Jon’s squeezing both her hands, and he’s starting to guffaw. Smart, small vibrations on her fingers, and only Gods know how much she’s touch-starved. Fuck her teeth. Fuck everything. Brienne laughs, and well.

They’re still laughing when Daenerys storms in, vibrant lilac flames taking the place of her eyes. She’s incredibly beautiful, and she seems a roaring dragon - a mini dragon, in truth. She’s not much taller than Arya.

“Brienne, my great, brave Brienne,” Dany says, with her musical voice, and stamps two kisses on Brienne’s cheeks. “You're in good hands, Tyrion Lannister is my own business, now. Lannisters are a disease for this poor world, beginning from the patriarch, Tywin, and _that Jaime_.” Her lovely features twist in loathing, when she says the name. “I owe a personal debt to Mr. Jaime Lannister.”

“Well, he's terrible.. still, he's Joffrey’s…”

“Of course, you don’t know, you’re so young, Brie.” The barely twenty years old girl explains her, indulgently. At her green age, Dany has already founded five different foundations in defense of civil rights, and one to preserve the historical site of Valyria, so maybe it’s natural for her to treat Brienne like a starving child. Or like an ancient stone wyvern, who knows. The lovely young woman runs a little hand in her platinum hair, and smiles. A strange smile. “He simply killed my father. Oh, don’t worry about me, I never met my father, and he was mad, a violent man, even with mom. So, probably, Jaime Lannister did everybody a favor, when he stabbed him. He was a minor, and rapidly acquitted, thank to his father’s gold. But it wasn’t an involuntary manslaughter, as they said. It was a deliberate homicide.”

 _I allowed a murderer to get into my room_ , she thinks, and her sight blurs, but she manages a weak _'bye_ when Dany leaves. Only then, when the door is close, Brienne notices the boy and the girl that the queen of rescuers has left behind, and recalls some words Daenerys has said about orphans and solidarity. She recalls to have agreed about a donation for the orphans, not about guesting orphans in the flesh. The girl smiles a sad, knowing smile, and the words " _Wait, Dany, you're forgetting here a couple of children_ " die on Brienne's mouth. 

***

The girl has a sweet name, Missandei, and she’s sweet like sugar. She’s of an age with Arya, and happy to share the room with her. She’s a pacifist, though, and she’d prefer butterflies to Arya’s swords or skulls, on the walls. 

The boy refuses to say his name. He’s fifteen, more or less, and a bit bellied. _Fat_ is the word used by Joffrey, but only once. Then the Greatjon growls at Joffrey, the orphaned boy bakes two wonderful hot pies for dinner, and Arya names him _Hot Pie_. The dinner goes on easily, and even Jon is humming Umbers' songs. She can relax.

“Honey bee, if you like to have many children, I volunteer to help you make them soon”, offers Thormund, and Brienne almost chokes on her second slice of pie.

It’s a nice evening, however. The works go speedily, the Smalljon has found some tiles identical to the originals to replace the ones he was forced to broke in the main bathroom upstairs - and Hyle has told her goodnight with a message.

 _Good night Miss_ , he has written, followed by a lily. Not a rose.

 _Good night, little princess,_ her father has written, with the emoj of a smiling whale. Selwyn Tarth is not too good with whatsapp, and neither his daughter is so accomplished, since she doesn’t know how deleting all the messages from a certain person, without opening them. And Brienne doesn’t want to open them, nor to eliminate the contact. He’s Joffrey's _kin_ , she may need to call him.

The only idea is sickening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest n. 7 : Missandei Naath  
> Sharing with Arya the bunk bed room upstairs.
> 
> Guest n. 8: Hot Pie  
> In a fortune bed, in the kitchen pantry. The boy has refused any other option.


	5. Guest n. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey’s vengeance resembles a cry of war. It’s a cry, and it’s war.

Joffrey’s vengeance resembles a cry of war. It’s a cry, and it’s war.

She literally jumps down the stairs armed of her fury, crosses the hall where Hot Pie stands (armed of a rolling pin, looking dangerous like Proust’s _petite madeleine_ ), jerks around to freeze Arya (armed of a stick that is identical to one leg of the Tiffany tea table), then finally she’s there.

On the battlefield.

The enemy strikes Brienne with the force of a million decibels. She reaches for the stereo, and finally Joffrey’s room is quiet. It’s 5 a.m., and there’s an incredibly vivid painting above the Chippendale bed. Even the bed is covered by paint spray, and the vandal shines a glorious gold. She’ll never know which one of her poor t-shirts has been sacrificed on the altar of music and barbarian art. 

“ _Immigrant song_ by Qarl the Maid is a classic, freak”, he declares, bright eyed. The pink on his cheeks is lovely as a girl’s blush.

“I prefer Tristifer’s version”, Brienne argues. Her head is spinning. It’s the smell. Dark ale and paint.

He puts a face. Pouty lips preparing themselves to tease her. “You should team up with Qarl. _Maids_ should band together, shouldn’t they?”

 _Thud. Thud. Thud._ The music beats. No, it’s Brienne’s heart, kicking like a donkey in her chest. She’s upset, and she’s suffocating - too angry to waste a glare on Joffrey, too slow to get to the window in time.

_Thud._

***

The Tiffany tea table and her dignity are the only victims lying on the field, in the end.

Brienne’s well, now, no matter what Jon and Jon and Jon are babbling. She has gained a pleasant bruise on her cheekbone and on her left arm, because the freak had necessarily to swoon against the wooden footboard, not on the soft Myrish carpet. That’s all.

Now she wants only to go upstairs – _all by myself, thanks Thormund, I don't need any assistance_ \- and sleep, or wear something decorous at least. She shifts on the couch, achingly aware of the fact that short pants and velvet pillows are a scant shield for her too long thighs.

Someone put a smoothie in her hand. It’s green. It’s fantastic. Hot Pie is a blessing, a pleasant scent is replacing Joffrey’s venoms in all the house.

The Smalljon persuades his father and Jon she can gets up - it seems he’s particularly well-prepared about concussions, thanks to his second wife, a true Mormont of Bear Island who didn’t appreciate his fling with the dornish street-artist that actually became his third wife, and soon third ex. 

Some pancakes, and Brienne feels sensibly better, really better. Joffrey is not at table with the others, but she doesn’t miss him so much.

When she has her jeans on, in the back pouch the mobile with Hyle’s _good morning_ , the tall-but-maybe-not-so-ugly girl is ready for the pawn shop.

***

“You can’t drive, freak. You’ll kill the both of us”, Joff grumbles.

“As it pleases Your Grace. Now drive.”

Joffrey is appalled. “I’ll never drive that …that _wagon_ … And not to go to a pawn shop. We might meet the … _poor ones_.”

He’s not simply appalled, he’s terrified. Every single curl of him is alarmed.

“Poor people won’t bite you. They’ve got enough troubles by their own, don’t need to take the mange from you.”

He takes the key of the station wagon.

***

At the shop, Joffrey does his best.

His tongue is sharp as an arakh and they all look at him – at them – as if they are some horde of horselords. For once, Brienne is sincerely glad to be mannish, and visibly strong. The blue mark on her face makes her look a bad, _very bad girl_ \- Lady Gaga is nothing compared to her, and can enjoys the snack a sort of goddess is offering her from the TV screens on the shelves.

Except for a few comments that will haunt her day, they sort out uninjured from the pawn shop, and have enough money.

They lack the courage, though. The building is slender, and elegant. Exquisite. The sign is golden: _Lannisters Corporation_. Her head is spinning again, and Brienne can’t blame a toxic paint, now. Joffrey seems on the verge to retch on the flowerbeds. He doesn’t make out a sound when she damps his brow with the water of one of the fountains.

When Mr. Lannister crosses the gardened square with his bodyguard, it’s like a miracle. They can get free, and driving home, in a few instants.

“Mr. Blackwater!”, she shouts. Half of the people passing by are looking at her, included a pair of mismatched eyes and another pair, of sly, dark eyes.

“Changed your mind, Legs?” The dark eyes scrutinize her, and Joffrey. The boy is yanking, pulling her, but she’s so much stronger than him, and surely more stubborn.

“Joffrey has something to tell you, Mr. Blackwater.”

The psycho-boy is going to kill her. He must have hidden a teaser, a knife, or a lighter, and she will burn in glory. Brienne’s already burning, and it’s not for the sun. The Gods have decided that Tyrion Lannister and the crowd are not enough. There are two golden heads among the crowd. Twins.

“Joffrey,” she urges the boy, and sounds like a plea.

“Miss Legs wants me to apologize for the new look of your Honda, Bronn, I don’t know why, ’cause even if I have to admit that your moto is surely better now, I’ve nothing to do with it, and, if I did it, it has been an accident. Or I was in trance, like that time at the stadium. Choose.”

“Joff!”

“Ok. I’m apologizing. I’m apologizing, can’t you see, freak?”

“Don’t call her freak, Joff. Her name is Brienne.” It’s the first time Mr. Jaime Lannister says her name. A lump seizes her throat, and she knows she has to go, immediately, before he or his twin can add something. Something awful.

“This money should be enough to refund the damages,” Brienne mutters, putting clumsily an envelope in Mr. Blackwater’s fingers. “Have a nice morning.”

Too late.

“Calling her freak is a cruelty to all poor freaks, indeed.” Red lipstick and assassin heels, the woman’s gorgeous, and glitters in hatred and scorn. “You should have known better than steal my boy, _Brienne dear_.”

“I’m not a boy, and not _your_ boy! I’ll never make that fucking test, so stop texting me!”, Joffrey yanks himself free, and runs. He can run fast, when he wants.

Concussion or not, Brienne’s also fast, and stamina is her best quality. She lets him go, only to follow him from not so far, and they leave behind first the bodyguard, then Mr. Jaime Lannister.

“Too old for us, aren’t they, freak?” He’s panting. He’s serene, now. Cautiously, like two thieves, they come back to the car, pink and blue and stunned.

 _Us_ is something unexpected.

***

Unexpected is Hyle's reaction to her bruise. He stiffens, and looks at Brienne as if she's something delicate. It's odd, but his words are soft, like the little packet he pushes in her hand. A _gift_ , she's not used to gifts, and for a moment she's so slow and awkward that she envies the Zootopia sloth.

It’s a hair band, blue and practical, useful to keep her crazy locks away from her eyes when she goes jogging.

“Because you like jogging, don’t you?”, he asks, and for an instant his brown eyes run on her legs, and Brienne feels strange, electric. “I’d like to go jogging together.”

Brienne is unsure about what answering. She stares at her coffee mug, listens to him. She likes listening to Hyle. A warm voice, a warm smile. He works as a gardener, but he’s studying to become a forest ranger. For a couple of hours, Brienne’s world is the forest: it’s magical the way he speaks about it. In Hyle there’s an energy, the same good vibration that she feels inside when it comes to her beloved numbers, but nobody, except Professor Aemon or Sam, would listen to her speaking about them for more than two minutes consecutives.

Yet, when she confesses to Hyle about math and so on, his eyes shines, and a dimple appears on his chin, just beside the faded scar. She wonders if one day she’ll kiss that small sign and blushes so wildly, that he laughs, with no hint of a mockery in his laugh. He’s so different from Connington and, yes, she’s glad to go jogging with him, on the morrow, if it’s not going to rain.

***

Brienne's humming when she comes back home, and looking at the sky. She almost falls in the hole. More an abyss than a simple hole, a few steps past the entrance gate.

"What about my trap for dwarves, freak?" Joffrey’s speaking, and he's beaming.

"Fix it. Immediately. Where are Meera and Joyen?" The Reeds brothers were supposed to look after all the children, Joff included.

"Am I the baby-sitter of the baby-sitters? Find them by yourself, freak."

***

The house is empty, except for the Umbers, too busy in demolishing a wall which was not in the demolition schedule to answer Brienne's questions. She finds Hot Pie taking a nap underneath the oak, near Missandei, who’s reading one of her Versailles-no-bara manga with Joyen, when Thormund tries to stop her to proclaim that he'd like to see her in a neutral paint and that Jon has gone downtown to buy a metalized bodice for the sitting room, or maybe it was the contrary - she's really in a haste.

Meera and Arya are missing, and cold sweat runs on Brienne's spine. She must calm down, she's too wary. Joffrey can't have dug two other big holes in her garden, in the short time she has been away. In fact, Meera and Arya are well, coming back from the riverside, muddy and relaxed - it's Missandei who starts crying as she sees the frogs they have impaled on a rudimental spike.

"Fried frogs are delicious", says Hot Pie, yawning and patting compassionately on the dusky girl's shoulders, with the only result to make her sob even more.

Even Brienne's mobile is sobbing in her pouch. Too many unread messages from a known number, and a call from an unknown number. She wasn’t waiting for the courier, but it’s the courier, and, of course, he can enter the property, being careful about Joff's hole.

"Don't you worry, Brienne. No one will fall in that hole, I ensure you", comments Joyen, winking at her. "I know it."

"What's that? Another of your prophecies, Jo? Forgive him, miss, they never happen."

"They do."

“They don't”, breaks in Joffrey, coming from his dwarf’s trap. Someone’s screaming.

The courier.

***

The courier, a father of seven called Davos, is safe and healthy. He leaves two packets, one big and one small, as soon as Brienne signs, mute and resigned. Maybe Davos is right, teenagers are all stormy, but storms pass, and in the meanwhile you can choose between drowning or dancing your way to the first good landing.

Even the man fallen in Joffrey’s pit is all right, more or less. A bit bruised, a bit scared. Joffrey looks quite upset, and Brienne suspects that he’s upset only because his trap has swallowed the wrong dwarf. A holy brother who worships the Smith, _not_ a lawyer.

Brienne offers him to stay for the night. It’s the minimum she can do, and maybe the Smith will bless her poor house, and the works will end, and all her beloved guests will find soon another place to destroy.

Missandei helps Brienne in medicating the holy brother’s scratches, and the holy brother officiates the most moving frog funerals of all the world. Arya and Joffrey have the decency to be quiet – thanks to the Greatjon. He would make a wonderful monster-sitter and he has promised to rebuilt the wall he has demolished with his son for error.

By now the ceiling of the dining room is all shored up, so they have dinner outside – pizza! Rised slowly, and baked in the big wood oven Brienne has almost forgotten to have in the back yard, cleaned anew for the occasion. Hot Pie is surely the descendant of a great king of old, no doubts about it.

“Don’t you open your packet, honey bee?”, says the descendant of a great, ginger bear.

“Oh, that’s admirable. So young and already married, fostering lonely children…”

“Not married, holy bro, not yet, I’ve still to steal her, wilding-like,” adds Thormund, and Brienne hopes to be in a hospital bed, dreaming a concussion dream.

“Wilding were fucking barbarians”, states a fucking barbarian, very blond and very full of pizza, and he laughs brazenly, when both the Umbers nod eagerly. After the art attack at dawn, the foolish run downtown, all that digging and covering and fighting, well, Joff should be KO. He’s not, he’s fresh like a rose, maybe cheered up by the big packet: tons of spray paints and canvas, from _‘Uncle Tyrion’._

 _‘I hope to see you tomorrow at 4pm_ ”, it’s also written in the message, and Jon reads it from over Brienne’s shoulders.

“Wildings used to name themselves the free folk”, intervenes Jon-the peacemaker-Snow, and he shows Brienne a whatsapp in which a certain _Breaker of chains_ says she won’t miss the opportunity of spanking Mr. Lannister. He shows it with _pride._

“Southrons don’t understand a jot about freedom, and how can the Gods be seven _and_ one? Seven, _or_ one. One is enough, and, still, one is one too many”, comments Arya, innocent. Apparently innocent. Innocence is surely not in cutting your sister’s braid, no matter if your sister is a bit unbearable.

“Ah”, comments the holy brother, with a sweet smile. 

There’s the universe in an _ah_ , sometimes. Brienne would like to say something nice and smart, but the metallic shine coming out from her packet distracts her. She can’t understand, it seems a chainmail shirt, like those you see in the historical reenactments, but it’s shaped for a woman and it has holes, two on the chest and one below… Gods be good. Not in front of a holy brother.

“I hope I had your measurements right, honey bee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest n. 9: a holy brother, very patient, very good. Practically a saint.  
> In the main bedroom, which was of Brienne’s parents, upstairs.


	6. Guests nn. 9bis and 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbye Mr. Lannister, she must say, and then go. It’s easy. Not that easy when you’re drunk of words and emeralds.

It’s 7 o’ clock and it’s raining. She fluffs up her pillow, rolls on her belly and sleeps a little more. If she has to wait for seeing Hyle again, the world has to wait for her.

Brienne’s mood doesn’t improve when she finds Joffrey in her tub, comfortable with the sofa pillows, a red coverlet and her Monsters and Maidens’ first edition, signed by Bael the Bard himself, before disappearing mysteriously after a visit at the Dreadfort.

“Good morning, freak,” he says, and smiles. A smile that makes her wake up definitely, but the house seems ok, no smell of smoke, only of coffee and pancakes, and Hot Pie confirms to be on the top of her welcomed guests’ list. “Don’t tell the giants I’m here”, he murmurs, “they want to put me at _work_.” 

He makes it sound like a torture worth of the legendary king Maegor. She recuperated her precious book, and sits on the edge of the tub. “You’re supposed to work, Joffrey, to repay to all the damages you did, and to refund the money I gave Bronn.”

“I’m a guest, and guest are sacred. You can’t oblige me, freak.”

“I can’t, and I won’t,” Brienne replies, and Joff sents her a satisfied, green wink. “Yet, I can’t do nothing to save you from the Umbers. You know, they’re also my guests, the both of them.”

He goes away as an indignant cat, and she has finally her bathroom all for herself. The life is made of little satisfactions.

***

Brienne is sure to have left her smartphone downstairs, but where?

“Have you seen my mobile, Missandei? Arya?”

They raise their dark-haired heads, and shake them. They’re adorable together, when they don’t bicker about the best way to heal the world – Missandei is the “put flowers in your cannons” type, while Arya is harder to define. _Not fond of flowers, for sure_ , and Brienne can understand the skinny girl. Roses are the giant girl’s nemesis. 

“I like your t-shirt, Brienne”, says the dusky child, in a consolatory tone.

Brienne likes her own t-shirt, too, a memory of a great concert. _I was made for loving you_ resounds pleasantly in her ears, but the clock tells her that it’s time to leave, if she wants the holy brother to get his train. She’s upset because she has this folly idea of asking Hyle to reach her at the mall, but the Crone is wiser than her, and she doesn’t want her to find her mobile and meet Hyle today, period.

She spies the lad at work under Jon’s surveillance, before getting inside the car. Joffrey seems to enjoy it, or maybe he’s simply glad to have finally a real saw in his claws, who knows.

***

At the mall, when Brienne asks where are those “kisses” that the Smalljon has asked her to buy as a gift for his first date with a certain Asha or Yara, the pimpled boy widens his eyes. Brienne is not new at this kind of reactions, yet she can’t get used to them. She swifts uncomfortably on her huge feet and already misses the holy brother, he has been so kind with her. He has even hugged her, before leaving. 

However, Brienne finally finds the “kisses” - they’re a sort of tiny chocolates with a big hazelnut on the top, and there’s a pretty promoter who’s offering a taste of them, giggling and ringing like a carillon to the man before her, magnificently built and with long curls shining even in the artificial light. 

He turns, all of sudden, and starts. _Today my bruise must be quite a sight_ , she guesses, but she doesn’t know actually, because she avoids mirrors as long as she can. Not that Mr. Jaime Lannister looks as if he likes spending a lot of time before mirrors, however. His jeans are worn, his t-shirt faded, _and yet_. He has her same t-shirt, only on him it’s dangerously close to the _perfect_ t-shirt.

“Hi wench”, he says, his mouth full of chocolate, and she tries to be polite, but the rest of her shopping is a pain.

Mr. Jaime Lannister grasps a lot of chocolates, and hides a smile when she also takes a packet of “kisses”, her face burning under his stare, then it’s the turn of the cornflakes, the milk, the fruit, and so on. Joffrey’s siblings curiously have the same appetite of her beloved guests, it’s not like Mr Lannister is taking advantage of the situation to embarrass her. Just a damned coincidence. His eyes don’t leave her, and that’s weird, it makes her feel in a way... a weird way. At least, he doesn’t pretend that the Dornish red that is putting in his basket is for Myrcella, Tommen, or for Joffrey.

She manages to let the golden knight behind before arriving at the cash, and when she’s back in her car, she feels finally safe.

For two minutes, more or less, then a grin cuts through the window. “It’s the battery, wench. You left the lights on, no wonder if this ridiculous cart is not moving.”

Happy or not, she’s forced to accept a ride on his lavish car, and she’s surprised that there’s enough room for her legs. It’s very comfortable, indeed, and the inside in leather is elegant, if not for the color, the usual Lannister crimson. She’s crimson, too, and she shifts her glance away when Mr. Lannister looks at her, slyly, as to say that she’s not that much taller than him, in the end, so it’s evident that his car fits her like a glove.

The rain falls on the glass window on the car roof, and there’s a small rainbow on his bicep, when the car starts moving. Brienne thanks silently the Gods because her house is not too far, and she thanks formally Mr Lannister, because her house is still a bit too far for a walk among the puddles with all the bags filled with food.

He smiles, and gives her another long look. He should look at the street, instead.

“I don’t mind, wench. I rent Mrs Stokeworth’s cottage, so we’re neighbors, now.” She hardly believes it. Mrs Stokeworth’s cottage has two windows looking directly into her garden. A murderer, living so close to her house. Well, in truth, she’s next to him right now - the car is spacious but they’re both big, and she can fell the heat coming from the bare skin of his arm, Gods help her. The murderer has decided to be kind, however. “It’s me who has to thank you, wench, for what you’re doing with Joff. I...I confess that you _impressed_ me the very first day we met, even if must confess I’ve been too angry, then, to realize it, and finally, well, I’ve been taken aback by your… the recent turn of events, well, you know.”

Her nails are a bit chewed, and she’s not going to answer. A lump has set in her throat when the car finally stops. The gate is open, and it’s her gate. Home. She’s home. _Goodbye Mr. Lannister_ , she must say, and then go. It’s easy. Not that easy when you’re drunk of words and emeralds.

He turns again. “Your words were… Aback, I’ve said, in truth I've been totally shocked, seeing the way you looked at me, the way you’re looking at me even now, frowning, but I don’t mean that it… displeased me, Brienne. Can I call you Brienne, wench?”

 _No, you can’t_ , she’d want to say. _You can’t look at me that way._

She holds her breath, as he frees one of her locks from Hyle’s blue hairband, and then his fingers brush the bruise on her face, both his hands are suddenly on her cheeks. Then he leans in.

The rain falls above them, muffling any sound, and the world is very far, now. Only his lips exist, and she tastes a hint of chocolate on her tongue. A bit more than a peck - a very sweet kiss for a first kiss, and maybe she’s not totally clumsy. She doesn’t know, she can’t know. 

She can’t even look at him, when they part. He’s Jaime Lannister and she has absolutely to ignore his hand on her thigh, and the throb in her groins.

“I’m not good in writing messages, wench,” he chuckles, and she doesn’t like his being cocky, now. “I rather prefer the traditional way of _communicate_ to whatsapp.”

_Communicate. Messages._

“Which messages?”, she hears herself ask, but she already knows that the answer is in her missing mobile. Jaime’s face drops, as she stammers something, catches his costly smartphone and reads just the last ones. Legs wrapped around Jaime’s neck, and some other proposals that _Wench_ has written to Mr. Lannister, and that Brienne doesn’t want to see.

A trap, it all has been just a trap for freaks. Sending messages is way easier than digging.

“Joffrey”, she cries, and jerks outside the car, a shambling, huge beast who hardly finds the path, and then the door of her own house.

***

“Honey bee.”

“Please, Thormund. Not now.”

“Honey bee. He’s gone, now, and the lad's gone with him. The first Lannister who dares to show his ugly face…”

“Mr. Tyrion, he… he has to come and meet with Daenerys.”

“The dwarf? Ok, little man, honeybee, I know dwarf is not a gentle word. That one doesn’t count as a Lannister, however. Jon's aunt has tamed him, literally, but, don’t worry, all the children were out for an endurance run under the rain with Meera, so they didn’t see how Dany rode her new dragon. He was gagged, but you could hear his groans even from the dependance. Now they’re both asleep on the carpet in the sitting room, embraced. Nobody has the heart to wake them up.”

“Th-they were supposed to meet at 4.”

“It’s 8 p.m., honey bee, and you should come downstairs and eat something.”

“Oh. I’m afraid I’m not that hungry, Thormund, and I’m afraid…well, they will notice that…”

“That you’ve been crying for hours? Listen to me, honey bee, no man deserves your tears, nor your fasting. Now we'll empty together this bottle which will prove you the existence of the northern Gods, and we'll go downstairs well drunk, and laughing, I grant you that. When you laugh and drink a lot, it’s normal to have the eyes of a puffy-fish, not that you now have the eyes of a damned fish, my lady, your eyes are always a wonder, yet… it can help, can’t it?”

Her belly rumbles, and Thormund smiles.

“Thanks, Thor”, she says, taking the first sip and going on fire.

“You’re welcome, honey bee. You can’t choose the ones you love, you know, but you can choose to have some good friends.”

His voice is a bit hoarse, and she feels guilty, and she’d like to ensure him that she has not fallen for anyone… but lying to a good friend of yours is like lying to yourself, and only cowards lie to themselves.

She sighs.

With all her faults, Brienne Tarth is not a coward and she confesses to herself that she has more than a crush for the worst man ever existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest n. 9bis: Tyrion Lannister  
> Guest n. 10: Daenerys alias "The Breaker of Chains"
> 
> Both asleep on the carpet in the sitting room, downstairs. They're still embraced ;) and Dany's the little spoon, because Tyrion can be a giant, sometimes.


	7. Guests nn. 12, 13 e 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You shouldn’t ignore a Lannister, Brie. Lannisters are not people who like to be ignored.”
> 
> “It’s just a stupid legend of the past, when people used to settle their problems with swords or maces.”
> 
> “Dreadful times.”
> 
> “You’re wrong, Sam. They were gorgeous times” - times in which a girl strong like Brienne could thrust a blade into a man’s throat, and then forgets, maybe.

At almost a hundred years old, Professor Aemon is the most lucid man that she has ever met, so when, at the end of their meeting, he asks Sam what’s wrong, Brienne finally opens her eyes, and see what the blind professor has already seen.

Samwell looks lost as if his father has just tried to drown him. Mr. Randyll Tarly is the classical man who wants his son to be another perfect asshole – puritan, sexist and racist - like him, but, thanking to the Gods, Samwell has his mother’s sensibility, and a brain that works. A great brain, in truth, and one day he will make an excellent professor, so Brienne is honored that he has chosen her for tutor. Not that Sam needs any tutor, he’s far too clever and probably he’ll graduate before he gets twenty, pulverizing the record that Brienne has set at KL’S University.

“I may need to find a new place to stay, but I lack a bit the money,” the boy confesses, shrugging.

“You can stay at my place, for a while, if you don’t mind to share the bathroom with a bunch of savages,” she says.

“I thought you were having troubles in dealing with all your guests, Miss Tarth. With one of them, in particular,” suggests Professor Aemon, softly, and Brienne feels her guts churn. She wonders if Joffrey has come to the University again with the excuse of giving her back the damned mobile. He can keep it, she has already bought a new one, and changed her number. If she could, she would have changed even face, and universe.

“Any building renovation implicates a bit of stress, but I can manage it, thank you,” she collects her papers, and nods to a smiling Samwell. “Ready, Sam?”

***

As they cross the garden, Samwell elbows her, and almost let fall to the ground the heavy tomes he has brought with him – because he may have forgotten to take a decent jacket, but he would never forget his favorite books, or the giant-screen Mac that Brienne is carrying.

“Sorry, Brie, but there’s a man trying to catch your attention on the other side of the fence.”

“Just an annoying neighbor. Ignore him.”

“But he looks very Lannister alike.”

“Mayhap he looks like a Lannister because he’s a Lannister, Sam.”

“You shouldn’t ignore a Lannister, Brie. Lannisters are not people who like to be ignored.”

“It’s just a stupid legend of the past, when people used to settle their problems with swords or maces.”

“Dreadful times.”

“You’re wrong, Sam. They were gorgeous times” - times in which a girl strong like Brienne could thrust a blade into a man’s throat, and then forgets, maybe - “weren’t they, Smalljon?”

The Smalljon shouts back his approval, and starts guffawing, before coming back to what he was doing. His last date must have been a good one.

“Small... Jon?”, says Sam, abashed. “Is there a Great Jon, too?”

“Of course, the one who’s working on the roof, with Jon.” She frees a hand to wave it, but they don’t see her. They’re concentrate, and at a good point, it seems - into two weeks, or even less, the house will be magnificent.

“Oh. A third Jon, I see. Why is he wearing a black t-shirt with long sleeves under this burning sun?”

“Because he’s stubborn. He dresses only in black and his half-sister Arya imitates him, you’ll see when she’ll come back from the school, with Missy and Hot-Pie. Jon is not so much taller than Tyrion, but he’s the one who commands the team of workers.”

“A commander, cool. Even this kitchen is really cool. Who’s Tyrion?”

“Another Lannister. Pay attention to him, he likes jokes, like our lovely Bronn. Good morning, Bronn”, she says, putting finally the Mac down.

“Hi, Legs”, Bronn answers, and yawns. He seems that he has woke up only a handful of minutes before. “Another of your strays? This time you’ll need a very resistant bed, for our Miss Piggy.”

“Never listen to Bronn, Sam. He’s a jerk, but he has recently lost his work, so…”, she shrugs, and starts cleaning the kitchen’s table. Today is Thormund’s turn to do the cleaning up, or has he switched turn with Arya? It’s beginning to be a bit too confusing.

“It’s the dwarf’s fault,” complains the dark-haired man. “He can’t resist to a pretty face, and he snores, too. I should move upstairs, Legs.”

“Bronn, I’m desolated, but upstairs is off limits for any people over 17. You shall keep sharing Tyrion’s chamber. Even Tyrion has lost his job, but he gained a girlfriend, at least,” Brienne sighs, thinking to the poor carpet of the sitting room. The ex-carpet of the sitting room. “Luckily, Dany doesn’t live here, or she and Tyrion would have already brought down what remains of my mother’s poor house.”

Bronn sneers. “Luckily for the girls. If Daeneris might see the way Sansa and Margaery dress to go to school…”

“Salsa? Margaret?”, breaks in Sam, bewildered.

“Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell”, explains Brienne, filling three glasses of orange juice. “She’s a sweet rose, but call her Margaret, of Marge, or Maggie and you’ll enjoy her thorns. She and Sansa arrived a week ago, officially because they had to spend at least a night into the _foolish blue house on the river_ to be accepted in the _Queens_ sisterhood. The truth is that Sansa is Arya’s sister, and Sansa missed Arya like Arya missed Sansa, but obviously they still pretend the contrary, while Margaery has no troubles at all with her brothers, she’s here to write some juicy articles for her blog. She’d like to become a writer or an influencer, or both.”

“Good Gods, Brie. Does your mother know that you’re guesting all these people?”

She lowers her eyes, and Bronn whistles. “Congratulation, Miss Piggy. Before you can say anything else embarrassing, take note that she has inherited this hovel from her mother, and no, she has no siblings, because her sisters were only babies when they died, and her brother drowned in the river that you can see from the bow-window. Everyone who’s more than twenty-five recalls the incident, it was on the media for days.”

“Bronn, you’re such a…”, she has to interrupt herself to pat on Sam’s back, because he’s chocking on the cookie he has stolen from the pale porcelain jar that someone else has left open.

“Why? For having tried to be kind and shield you from this cookie-slayer? He should have washed his fat hands, at least, before touching Hot Pie’s delicatessen.”

She feels her fingers twitch but she has no time to quarrel with Bronn, since the bell is announcing someone and that someone might be Hyle – and she doesn’t want Hyle to be bothered by Bronn. Somehow Bronn is convinced she should have accepted to meet again with Mr. Jaime Lannister, and Tyrion is of the same advice, but he’s clever enough not to say it aloud.

***

It’s just Sansa and Margaery, with a friend of theirs, a pretty brown-haired girl with big eyes the color of Nutella. They giggles like an only girl when Sam stares at them as if they are some sort of angels, with no wings, but with very short skirts and glittered Vans.

“Can we talk somewhere, Brienne?”, Margaery says, and Brienne smells the anxiety under the good scent of rosewater of the conditioner the pretty blogger uses for sweeten her curls. Five minutes later, Brienne is happy to know that Gilly - this is the name of Sansa and Margaery's classmate - has brought a sleeping bag of her own, because obviously she isn’t here for a tea, or some easy gossip. She’s here because her violent father is about coming back home after ten years of jail, and Brienne needs to know nothing more. Gilly can stay, in the girls' bedroom.

Brienne can’t blame Sam who seems very red and very confused: her house resembles more and more to a camp. A noisy and dusty camp, yet no one hints at finding a better place, and Daenerys is calling to Brienne's new number with a frequency that can mean only she has _a new orphan to settle_. When Hyle finally arrives, Samwell tries to reorganize his mind and start a smart conversation.

He fails miserably.

“So, you’re Brienne’s boyfriend, Hyle, I’m so glad to meet you,” Sam says, and both Sansa and Margaery clear their throats. Brienne just looks elsewhere.

“Boyfriend? Not yet”, repeats Hyle, and Brienne would like him not to look at her so smugly. She has already had her bad experiences with smug, egocentric people.

“Well, I guessed that you and Brienne, you know, well, the kiss and then Red Ronnett’s saying bad things about Brie. They say you hit him very hard in the mall’s parking, one must care a lot about a girl to knock another person down, I suppose.” Samwell glances at Gilly, and she nods approving.

Brienne is so stiff that if she'd try to move her neck, it would break and her head would roll on the cartons put by the Smalljon to protect the recently restored wooden floor of the studio.

“No, it wasn’t me who kissed Brienne, it has happened and she told me about it, so it’s all ok”, replies Hyle, squeezing her gelid hand. “And no, I'm not used to go and knock down people in some parking, but if it was about a lady’s honor, well, I’d like to confess me guilty of it, at risk of spending a few days of house confinement.” Hyle smiles at her, but Brienne sees another smile.

> “Wench”, he had called her, and the word seared under her skin and flowed in her veins like liquid fire. He smiled as she turned, collecting all her bravery. A sad smile, yet he was even more beautiful that she might remember. It was the sun - when he’s crowned by the sunlight he looks younger, and almost innocent.
> 
> “Brienne”, she answered, and she shouldn’t have. She should have called Thormund, Jon and all the anti-Lannister team, instead.
> 
> “Brienne. It’s ok, I like your name, Brienne. Will you call me Jaime?”
> 
> She recoiled, instinctively, and he understood. “Ok, you won’t. I guess we should talk, however.”
> 
> She recoiled a bit more. “Don’t pass the fence, though.”
> 
> “I couldn’t, even if I would, Brienne.” His smile sharpened in a sarcastic smirk, when he pulled back and lifted his leg with an agility that put on display how his body was perfectly shaped, and very well trained, too. But his right ankle had something she had never seen before, if not in action movies. “Not with the lovely bracelet the government has gifted me.”
> 
> “You’re under house arrest.”
> 
> “I’ve thought that Tyrion had already told you. It has been just a brawl, Brienne, nothing serious and I’ve been provoked.”
> 
> She looked down at the scratches on his knuckles, and frowned. She was able to recognize the signs of a bare-handed punch. Not even Bronn would have been such a beast. “Ah. Just a brawl.” She thought of Joffrey struggling with his never-ending inquietude and felt the anger growing like a tide in her chest. “Well done, Mr. Lannister. The bracelet suits you, its tiny light being such a cute red. Almost crimson, I’d say. Have a nice evening,” she concluded, and left, putting on the earphones to plunge in some consoling vibes.

She shouldn’t have left, maybe. She should have asked him, maybe, just a couple of questions, and now she’d be calm and reassured about the fact that it’s all only a coincidence.

It hasn’t been Jaime who hit Red Ronnett, for sure.

Red Ronnett is only a stupid guy who hates everyone because he’s too ambitious for his merits, so no wonder that he has stumbled in someone who has kicked him in the ass - and Red Ronnets hates Brienne particularly since they were children playing on the Tarth beaches and their fathers wanted them to befriend and have a lot of children with his ginger hair and her freckles, so, again, no wonder if he has been keeping his lovely habit of talking shit about her.

“Brie, is it all ok?”, Sanwell asks all of sudden, and she realizes that the girls are gone and the probably it’s not the first time that he tries to have an answer from her.

“Of course, Brienne's ok, doesn’t she look gorgeous now that she's at my side? You should put on the hairband I gifted you, darling, to match your eyes”, Hyle says, and she agrees even if she’s on the verge to retch, because she detests to be called 'darling' and mostly because Hyle's hairband has ended in the garbage with the clothes she was wearing that damned day she has kissed Jaime Lannister and put her life in the hands of some disturbed God’s hands.

Luckily, the mobile rings, and Dany’s voice congratulates her for being so generous with Pod, who is a good, clever boy, just a bit shy. When the call ends, Brienne has gained another guest and a good excuse to postpone her dinner with Hyle. She's too messy to date with him, she has told Hyle and she tells him again while she accompanies him at his car, but he's so sweet and insisting.

Maybe Sansa will help her choosing a dress for sunday, a black dress to reduce the impact of her frame, or a blue one.

Even blue is a good color on Brienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest n. 12: Samwell Tarly  
> On a leather couch, in the studio, downstairs.
> 
> Guest n. 13: Gilly Crassdottir  
> Sharing the main bedroom upstairs with Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell.
> 
> Guest n. 14: Podrick Payne  
> No chance. Even if the house is very big, Brienne has to put him in Galladon's room, upstairs.


	8. Guest n. 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now the choice is to thrown him in the river, or face him. Brienne’s hands twitch, but he’s seventeen, and she can’t shove a beardless boy in the water only because he has send those messages. 
> 
> Wait, she surely ought to, and save the world from Joffrey.

She has tried to avoid him.

Uselessly it seems.

Now the choice is to thrown him in the river, or face him. Brienne’s hands twitch, but he’s seventeen, and she can’t shove a beardless boy in the water only because he has send those messages. 

Wait, she surely ought to, and save the world from Joffrey.

Instead, she towers on him - just a bit, she’s not using her height to intimidate him, she doesn’t need to use certain tricks or so she repeats herself – and says the only thing she can say. 

“No, Joffrey.”

“What? Have you lost even that tiny spark of wit the Gods have given you?”

“No, and I won’t change my mind.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why is Sweetrobin weeping right now? Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you, shoveling it?”, she growls, feeling like inside one of those tv-series with witches and wizards that Arya and Missandei like watching together with the Greatjon, ignoring the time on the huge pendulum clock. “The broken glasses, the toxic spray, the messages and now... targeting even two innocent children.”

His gaze is green and a bit gold, too. Like his grandfather. Not that Brienne wants to recall the handful of minutes she has spent with _Lord_ Tywin Lannister. Decisively not the greatest time of her life, yet far, far better than the awkward looks between her and the man that now practically lives in the garden next to hers, what the fuck. Her stomach grinds every time she thinks at the softness of his lips, and how the hell is she supposed not to think at the good killer next door, when he's so close that she can smell his scent in the air?

The boy in front of her is not helping, obviously.

“Cool down, freak, and learn how to count.” Joffrey has the arrogance of replying, stroking the fuzz on his chin like Professor Pycelle used to stroke his beard, before being expelled from the University for unworthiness. “I talked with one child, not two. I said nothing to …my cousin? Is still Shireen my cousin? Dunno. However, you should congratulate with me, freak, for not giving in the temptation to say something to Stannis the Mannis’ daughter, with both her parents involved in the most gruesome scandal of all times. Sex, drug and shadowbinders with double D cups - and have you noticed the birthmark on Shireen’s cheek?”

“Shireen is the sweetest girl…”

“...the sweetest and the ugliest, if it weren’t for you. Don’t barge into my speech, please, I find it so impolite. About Shireen’s snotty friend, it’s him who has importuned me, not the way round. I’ve just answered to his question, because I’m a gentle person who answers even to idiotic kids’ questions and I've simply said the truth, am I to blame myself for having said the truth?”

She shakes her head, but Joffrey is not looking at her.

He’s staring at the house, blue and tormented like a heroine of a song. Now, it’s the kitchen that has yielded to Jon and his workers - let’s call them workers, because actually they work, sweat and dirt their clothes too quickly for Brienne’s old washing machine, but unfortunately their results prove to be inversely proportional to the number of the beer cans thrown in the big recycling bin in front of the cottage’s kitchenette. And the house won’t be ready until the Stranger’s Day, at least.

“Again, am I to blame myself if Jon Arryn’s wife tried to murder him because he wanted to divorce?”, the boy goes on. “To be honest, Jon Arryn is so old and sour breathed that he should have been gallant enough to close both his eyes at his wife’s cheating, even if …Littlefinger. Gods be good, how can a woman choose as a lover a moron whose nickname is Littlefinger? Argh, Mrs. Arryn must be totally crazy, maybe they will send her to the rehab with Stannis and mom.”

“Joff…”

“Oh, don’t you worry, freak. Mom loves spas and rehabs, and she has really exaggerated when she has found out that her golden twin has been arrested, and that he couldn’t invoke the self-defense, like with Mad Aerys Targaryen. Or maybe it has been the bastards and their claims to the Baratheon fortune to drive her crazy.” Joffrey sneers, and runs a hand on his scalp, a bit perplexed, as if he doesn’t remember that he has shaven his hair off. “It seems the drunkard had never been taught what a condom is. Fifteen among sons and daughters, from fifteen different women, for all I know. The good thing is that Mom is no more insisting on me making the DNA test, now that I should share the drunkard’s money with all those strays, so I’m thinking about doing it, after all. What do you think about it? Should I? Not that I care about your opinion, freak, after the kiss affair.”

She jerks as if the guy has hit her. “Get out my property, Joffrey. Now.”

“Oh, no. Not without having delighted you with my point of view”, he hisses, leaning dangerously from the dock to spit into the river. “No one cares about Joffrey’s point of view, but then if I light a small bonfire just to warm me up a bit, it’s all a _what have you done Joffrey, that’s not the way Joffrey, I wish you’ve never existed Joffrey_ … I honored you, freak. With my art, with my presence, and for free. Have you got any idea of how much costly are the spray cans?”

“Joffrey, obviously I have, since you used my credit card to buy them,” Brienne says but she isn’t sure that it’s the right thing to say, right now.

He seems satisfied by the answer, paradoxically, and waves his hand in a way that reminds her a bit Richard III played by Laurence Olivier and a bit Jack Sparrow - without Johnny Depp and the wig.

“I meant costly in a poetic way… think about the artist, struggling in separating himself from his works… Even the messages I wrote for you were a gift, and yet. You disappointed me a lot, freak. Really. I wasn't sure to give you another chance, but considering how much desperate you are without me, I came back, willing not to mention, at all, the fact you kissed the walking shit that is probably my biological father, uncaring of my mental sanity. But obviously you don’t understand, as it always happens, since in your fucking island babies are weaned with milk and dumbness, and you do insist on talking about those stupid messages.”

“Joffrey, I can ensure you I have no intention of talking about them.” 

“Too late, oaf of freak. Always spoiling my talent. Think about me, noticing your mobile on the table without a fucking password to preserve your privacy. Think about my concern, seeing how much you’re helpless without me keeping vigil all the time. Naturally, I said to myself, _time for your daily good action, Joff, let's do a favor to the freak, let’s teach her the importance of being prudent in this world full of creepy bad people_ , and there it was. The message you sent him. The evidence that you were a spy, in cahoots with the enemy.”

His eyes shine, now, as if he's really upset. Brienne pinches herself, but she's awake, and the surface of the river glimmers tenuously like any other day. Another day of ordinary madness, and Arya's teacher is still waiting for _her_ , Brienne, to go and talk about Arya’s school conduct, as if Arya hasn't got two parents which can respond for the girl's wildness, Gods be merciful.

“I texted him once, only once, he was worried about you,” she replies, trying to relax the muscles of her face, without knowing why she has to bother. Pulling this skin-head Joffrey into the water would be surely better for the both of them.

“Once, you say. Once, because you surely met him somewhere. Otherwise, why did _he_ wooed you with all those other messages, I saved them, here they are…”, and he pulls out his mobile like a magician pulls out a rabbit from the cylinder, “… such a lot of honeyed rubbish. Listen. _Should I thank you wench? Go bugger yourself, I’d rather die than to thank you. I don’t know what game you’re playing, people are never that kind, for free. I wonder if you’re really kind or simply an idiot. I’m not used to kind people. I'd like we’ve met in another way though, so maybe you’d talk to me. Curse me or kill me but answer me stupid wench_ and I won’t continue because we need positivity in our lives, and not disgusting teeth-rotting fluff.”

Brienne recalls the phone buzzing, and she also remembers that she has never opened any of Jaime's messages, except for the first one, and she aches, and she really, but really, doesn't want to listen any more word about it. She starts walking, and Joffrey grasps her jacket.

“Yet I’ve still conserved some doubts, because you're always so unbearably honest that even the whitest lily feels inadequate compared to you. So, I replied to the golden shit’s messages with a bit of spice. Nothing too original, I fear, just put down some of the torrid fantasies Thormund posts on his Insta stories, and waited.”

Brienne doesn't want to stay, she needs to eat something and calm down the burning in her stomach, because in the morning she has been too in a haste to tell Lord Tywin Lannister what she thought of his medieval need of revenge for having breakfast.

And yet, she stays.

“I trusted you, freak”, Joffrey shouts, “You were supposed to kick him in the ass, to make him spit out every one of his damned teeth, to reduce his perfect grin into a poultice, to avenge me, Tommen and Myrcella. You weren't supposed to fancy him like he's a sort of God.”

A God. Gold like the sun, and like the sun he’s always on sight, mostly in the worst moments. For a moment, Brienne stares at Jaime - he’s pale, his hands clutched at the fence - then turns towards the blue house. It looks like an oasis in the Red Waste.

“You shouldn't have making out him, and banished me. That’s unfair, and, to restore justice in the world, you have to give me back my room, along with the cans nuncle Tyrion has gifted me,” Joffrey concludes, his features altered by brightness of the river, or of the sun, or both. “Please, freak.”

 _Please_ is such a nice word, she has thought, once. An overrated word, she thinks now.

And yet.

“You can’t have back your old bedroom, Joff”, she decides, “but you can share Galladon’s chamber with Podrick.”

“Downstairs or upstairs?”, are his words.

“Upstairs.”

“Ok, freak. I forgive you, this time”, he dares to say, and grins, walking back to the front torch, arm in arm with Brienne. “Let’s have a smoothie, and talk about this Pod. I mean, is this Pod a real person or a ghost like that drowned brother of yours? Not that I have nothing against ghosts, it has been my granny’s ghost to teach me how to paint and also how to make delicious smoothies. I adore ghosts and the Stranger’s day, we’re going to celebrate it in the coolest way, you’ll see. The essential is that your Pod doesn’t snore or talk about himself all the time, as some arrogant, egocentric, despicable people do. Does he talk too much, my dear freak?”

“No. Pod doesn’t talk at all. He stammers, some rare times.”

“He stammers,” Joffrey sighs, dramatically loud. “My sensibility will drive me to an early death, but I’ll never leave you alone, my lovely freak, never more. How could I? A stutterer, an exasperating dwarf and his cynical bodyguard, a perverted wilding who’d like to plant a bunch of baby wildings into you, a psyco-girl and her bastard brother, a couple of drunkards coming from the end of the world, three nymphos and a glutton who always stares at the less interesting one of the trio, and I’m not going to say a word about the children, because you’re so terribly fond of innocents and losers, but, in truth, admit it, is there a normal person among your beloved guests?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest. n. 17: Joff, again.
> 
> Upstairs, sharing Galladon's former chamber with Pod.
> 
> Guest n. 15, Shireen Baratheon, is sharing Arya and Missandei's chamber, upstairs. Arya was eager to plant a tent in the middle of the room, and they to be in the woods.  
> Guest n. 16: Robert 'Sweetrobin' Arryn. He has cried until Sansa and Margaery agreed of letting him sleep, between them, in the great bed of the main bedroom, upstairs.


	9. Guests nn. 18 e 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, the dragon kings ruled over the seven kingdoms.

Once upon a time, the dragon kings ruled over the seven kingdoms. Some of them had been chosen by the Lannisters and the other Great Houses of Westeros, but it was Bran the Broken, Lord of Winterfell, the first king who had been _voted_ by an assembly of men and women, highborns and lowborns, survived to the Long Night.

The first example of true democracy in Westeros, they say. A legend, a good tale to impress children with the most important of all lessons: democracy is never granted, it's something you have to conquest, and to preserve for you and your children, day by day, risking of your life, if necessary.

Brienne smiles, recalling her teacher Goodwin's lesson, and feels like she's betraying him, in a way.

Then Margaery's sly grin makes her fingers twitch, as if she were another Joff, and Brienne sighs, frustrated, because she can't punch such a lovely face - not in front of half the Tyrell family.

“Well, I suppose it's going to be easy, in the end”, Brienne says, gazing at the slice of apple-cake that Hot-Pie has brought her. “The results are clear enough.”

Strangely, Willas Tyrell shares an odd look with his grand-mother, whilst Margaery's grin widens. Sansa simply looks away, at her mobile.

“As the girls have just told you, the vote has been unanimous”, nods Jon, a bit hesitant. Ashamed, it's the right term. “Well, unanimous, if not for Thor's condition.”

“A conditioned vote? Is it regular?” Brienne asks, pensive.

“Honey bee”, starts Thormund, “I know that you're not glad about expelling the lad from the house, so, for me he can stays, if only...”

“If only?”

“Well, if you'll let me sleep upstairs. For your safety, only for that, honey bee. Not necessarily in your bed, I mean, I like sleeping on the wooden floor – with no carpets, only the hard parquet and...”

“... with a nice pair of handcuffs, or a lovely rope”, she concludes, and the red-haired worker changes himself in a huge heart-eyed emoji. “No, thanks, Thormund.” Brienne turns again towards her dark-dressed friend. “Well, Jon, there's a thing I haven't still understood. Has everybody voted? I mean, the children...”

It's Margaery who takes again the word. It comes so natural to her. She'll be a very skilled president of her college sisterhood, one day. “Shireen and Robert are too green, indeed, to vote. Tyrion is somewhere with Joffrey, but he should have abstained himself in reason of the evident conflict of interests, while Missandei has refused to vote, because voting against Joffrey might compromise her karma, now that she has reached a compromise with the boy's crazyness. Arya has refused to vote, too, for opposite reasons; she says that she believes in anarchy and that democracy is shit.”

“The truth is that Arya wants to deal with Joffrey personally after he has convinced Sansa to pose for the famous portrait. With no offence, Jon”, affirms Thormund.

Sansa goes a violent pink and Mrs. Tyrell's tiny body seems quite imploding, shaken by laughs. “Please, forgive me, my darlings. It's the Titanic affair, you know, it's too amusing.”

“Granny, this is a house, not a ship”, replies quietly Willas Tyrell. He resembles to his sister, but his large, chestnut eyes have the wisdom of a man who's almost thirty. “A very lovely house, I'd add”, he concludes, and Brienne blushes, flattered by the compliment. Every compliment to her mother's house means a lot for her, now that she has almost run out of money for its never-ending restoration.

“No, and Sansa hasn't certainly got the fabulous breasts that the Titanic actress has, but the girl has _willingly_ posed wearing only a sapphire necklace, hasn't she?”, says the terrible crone. “I wonder if her and Joffrey, well, are still fucking or...?”

“No!”, yells Sansa, palmfacing.

“Granny!” Margaery's voice sounds shocked, and _upset_. She's gray-faced like Jon, actually.

“Come on, Margaery”, replies Mrs. Olenna Tyrell, wrinkled and merry, “you're grown enough to know that a few quickies have never consummated any boy, and now that it's clear that Sansa wants no more Joffrey to be her _friend with benefits_ , that's how the youth call it now? However, if you desire it, make him, the boy is attractive enough and smart, like any other Lannister. Just don't try to use one of those pouty faces of yours with me, it's me who invented them, darling. And close your mouth, now, love of my life, you're practically identical to your father, who is, in turn, identical to that curious fish... what's the name of that fish that puffs its cheeks, Willas?”

“Pufferfish, granny.” Willas looks at Brienne, showing a deep-rooted nonchalance, even if Bronn is keeping his belly and rolling on the floor of the brand-new kitchen - and it's not just a way of saying. “I was wondering, instead, if you've found your mother's necklace, Brienne.”

“Not yet”, she answers to the only kind Tyrell, swallowing a bite of the cake. Sugar is a great antidote for stress, she has found out. “However, Joff hasn't lost the necklace, only the great sapphire pendant.”

“Another reason to get him out of here, as we've voted”, breaks in Margaery with a haste not natural on her. “Unanimously.”

“Unanimously. Also you, Sam? Gilly?” They both make an affirmative nod at Brienne's question. “Greatjon? I thought Joff was of some help, lately.” Brienne's eyes gessochain both the Umbers to their chairs.

“Well, the boy has tried to do... something, but he wasn't born to work, I fear”, complains the Smalljon, scratching the skin of his right leg, just beneath the edge of the cast. “And it was him to tell Asha that I've had a _relapse_ with Alysane, my first wife.”

“Yes, but it was Asha to break your leg, not Joffrey, you bear-fucker”, laughs Broon, seeming on the point to collapse again on the white-and-blue tiles of the floor. “Yet, I want the pretty pyromaniac being well far from my ass.”

“It was Asha with Alysane, and Alysane is strong like Brienne”, says the Greatjon in defence of his pup, probably unaware of the fact that the Smalljon's prowess has brought to a historical truce between Greyjoys and Mormonts.

“And what has Hot Pie voted? And Pod?”, Brienne finally asks, and enjoys seeing Margaery wrinkling her nose, Sansa biting her lips, and Thormund adjusting the crotch of his jeans. 

“Well, honey bee, the voting committee has decided that Hot Pie shouldn't be admitted to vote, until he'd have said his true name, whilst Pod, we forgot about Pod.”

“Pod is always so silent”, Margaery explains, and smiles an apologetic smile. “But one missing vote doesn't change the results.”

“The vote is invalid”, states Jon, and seems relieved. Brienne squeezes his hand, fondly.

“Nonsense. Joffrey must be expelled.”

“We can vote again.”

“Pod will vote for Joffrey, that's sure.”

When Brienne clears her throat, everybody shuts up, who know why. She's smiling, isn't she? It seems they're expecting her to give a speech, Olenna and Willas Tyrell included, so she has to say something, in the end - may old teacher Goodwin forgive her.

“If you'd like my opinion on the matter...”, she begins, and they all cheer and want her opinion, so she become very, very red. Speeches aren't Brienne's strong point. “I'm not a lawyer, or a jurist, yet I'd say your vote is null and void, my friends. Or even worse, I fear, it belongs to the category of non-existent things, and as the enlightened tyrant that I actually am, I won't merely forget and forgive about it, but I will deny its existence on this plan of reality, in the same way I deny and I'll always deny any fucking democratic right under my fucking roof.” Silence is such a nice thing, and Willas Tyrell is unexpectedly handsome when he smiles. “Coming now to serious matters... Jon?”

“Yes, Brienne?”

“I expect the works to be ended in time for the Stranger's day, as promised.”

“Of course, Brienne.”

“Perfect. Margaery?”

Margaery tilts her chin. The doe-eyed girl has lost her tongue, apparently.

“I name you the head of the committee for the party we'll have in occasion of the Stranger's Day. Just remember to include everyone in the preparations.”

“It will be a great party. Skeletons, pumpkins, everything. The children will love it, I'll swear it Brienne.”

“Fabulous. Another slice of cake, Mrs. Olenna?”

“No, thank you, my darling, I'm sated”, the wrinkled woman replies. “I wonder if I can ask you another courtesy, instead. I'd like to stay here for a night or two, the time for that oaf of my son and his wife to breathe. You'd hardly believe it, but I can be a bit thorny, sometimes.”

“You're welcome, the studio upstairs has a large sofa-bed, Mrs. Tyrell. Just a thing.”

“Your roof, your rules”, the crone's smile is as wide and white as her grandson's. “And I'm already adoring your rules, darling.”

 _Triumph has the taste of a delicious apple-cake,_ Brienne thinks, bringing to her mouth another precious bite and finding, finally, the lost sapphire pendant of her mother's necklace.

It costs her only half a wisdom tooth - triumphs are such an ephemera things, in truth.

***

Tyrion is tall, taller than her.

Brienne tells it to him, and he looks at her with concern. He shouldn’t be concerned, though - Brienne can obviously can get up all by herself and walk. The anesthesia has made her so happy.

It’s like a birthday party, here’s at the clinic where Willas and Olenna Tyrell have brought her – there’s Tyrion, there’s Dany, hello Joffrey, hello doctor, ah, the girl isn’t a doctor, she’s a nurse and she’s really pretty with those startling blue eyes of hers. Brienne tells her, then denies to be lesbian or bi. It’s only that Mya the nurse is so much alike Renly, and wasn’t Renly delicious in the college calendar?

He was phenomenal, he was a hottie! The hottest student ever! Dany's wrong, who cares if Renly’s gay or straight, you can dream of his solid ass however, and no, Brienne must confess to Mrs. Tyrell that she didn’t know that Renly was married to Margaery and Willas’ brother. That’s cute, that’s all so cute, now that she’s no more in pain. Of course, she is ready to get up.

Ready. Right.

Now.

Ok, if everybody does insist about it so gently, she can wait on the dental chair for a while. The lamp is so brilliant, like Jaime’s eyes when he stares at her. Oh, that’s a wonder. There’s Jaime, too. Staring at her, again.

Mr. Lannister, pardon.

Brienne has to call him Mr. Lannister, and she must call the police because he has evaded from Mrs. Tanda’s garden. It’s not fair, someone has stolen her mobile, again, and it can’t be Joffrey because he’s flirting with the blue-eyed nurse, who’s almost 21-22 like Brienne. Hey, can somebody tell the nurse that Joff is a minor, and can the nurse be so kind to tell Tyrion that she needs her mobile back, to call the police? No matter if Jaime is no more under house arrest, and the fact that the green-eyed monster is there to accompany Joffrey to make that famous DNA test is irrelevant, either.

Because, it is known, Mr. Jaime Lannister is bad, very bad. A murderer, isn’t he, Dany? Dany? Where’s Dany, now? Ask Dany and she’ll tell every Westerosi that Jaime-golden-hair-Lannister shouldn’t be let free, since he’s dangerous, with a propensity to smile too brightly and kiss idiotic wenches who have never been kissed before and who miss a tooth, now.

You can walk even if you lack a wisdom tooth, in every case, so Brienne really struggles to understand why Mrs. Olenna and her limping, but very handsome, grand-son are both pressing their hands on her shoulders to keep her lying on the chair. For Gods’ sake, she has said handsome to Willas, loudly enough that even Jaime has heard. Why is he still there - Jaime, not Willas. Willas is nice and can stay, he’s also Renly’s good-brother.

Is Renly a Baratheon, truly? Robert and Stannis’ brother? The world is so small. Even Olenna is so small, a tiny dried prune, maybe she’s somehow related to Hyle - Hyle’s short, but good, like her. The crone denies both things, she’s not good and she’s not Hyle’s kin, and when Mrs. Tyrell wrinkles her nose in that odd way Brienne guffaws and realizes that she has to hurry, or she will be late to her first true date with Hyle.

What Joffrey shouts about Hyle is unfair, and she’s not a freak, or better she is a freak but he doesn’t have to call her a freak during such a nice party, so she shoves his hand off.

She doesn’t need Joffrey’s help, and decisively she can’t accept Willas’ arm, not after she has said that she finds him handsome. It wouldn’t be correct, now that Hyle is waiting for her, she has already kissed Jaime with Hyle’s hairband on her head, so it would be quite queer, even the nurse agrees about that - and Brienne is able to walk splendidly, all by herself.

See, Mr. Lannister? LORD Lannister, pardon. How dares the bald man say that she’s drunk? Brienne is not drunk, And, thank you Mr. Jaime Lannister, but she can defend herself by herself, and it’s blatant for every person who has some wits that is the clinic which is moving a bit too quickly under her feet. It’s obvious, it’s a terrible Lannister clinic, and Lord Tywin is a terrible Lord, too, and she’s not afraid of repeating to him all the things she has already told him, that day, about Joff, and Shireen, and Sweetrobin, and Tyrion, and Jaime. Dear Joffrey - he’s so naïf, and can’t understand that even adults can suffer because of a father so… so… Mrs. Tyrell has chosen the right word, and Brienne can’t say anything more.

Even because her gums are numb, and bleeding.

Just a bit. Ok, a bit more than a bit.

But she’s not in pain, no more. Only cold. Dr. Qyburn’s sedation is surely best sedation ever – ah, funny, Dr. Qyburn is not a true oral surgeon, according to what Dany has googled out and Tyrion looks more and more concerned. Why? Brienne has never felt lighter, she’s a feather in Jaime’s arms, but ok, she's going to every room they want her to go, don’t need to be escorted by an army of Lannisters and Tyrells and Targaryens. Dany’s brother looks a bit mad, indeed - the younger one, she means, not the older one, well, Rhaegar’s gorgeous, even if not as gorgeous as Jaime.

She tells it to fucking Lord Tywin Lannister, and pats him on his dark suit when she adds what her father has always told her: _older men are better, baby._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest n. 18: Mrs. Olenna Tyrell.  
> In the studio, upstairs.
> 
> Guest n. 19: Mr. Willas Tyrell (self-invited) - working all night long on his notebook on the kitchen island, since he had to spend all day behind his grand-mother and a very tall, very messed up, yet kind, girl.


	10. Guest n. 19bis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wench.” He says, and doesn’t retreat his hand. In this life, he has still his right hand and his right hand is on hers, like it’s natural for him to be holding her hand.

There’s a bear and her sword is just a wooden toy. She’s already bleeding - she’s going to die in a few moments. Then he lands just before her, armed of a sharp smile, a stump and a human bone, lighted up with shining black maggots, and doesn’t’ listen to any of her words, as usual.

But the worst happens when they’re far from the burned castle, ahorse, probably safe. The worst is when he tells her he has dreamed of her. You can’t tell a girl you’ve dreamed of her with _that_ voice and then smile, _that_ way. It’s… it’s the very moment she realizes it’s everything upside down, and it’s her who’s dreaming.

Brienne blinks, her eyes struggling to see amidst the fog. She’s shrouded in white cotton sheet, two annoying short tubes in her nostrils, the horse smell coming not from a horse but from the man seated in a small chair, at her bed side. He’d need a bath, but he has still both his hands.

“Wench.” He says, and doesn’t retreat his hand. In this life, he has still his right hand and his right hand is on hers, like it’s natural for him to be holding her hand.

“Kingslayer?”

“Jaime. My name is Jaime.” His thumb strokes her wrist, slowly. “Don’t worry, wench, if you’re dazed. It’s normal, they say, they had to make you sleep, a while, just a while. Not a hundred years”, he smiles, _that_ smile, again, “or your father would have changed into Maleficent and definitely killed mine.”

“M-my father?”

“He came as soon as _my_ father called him. Don’t know why, but he has been conserving Selwyn Tarth’s number for more than two decades, it seems.” Jaime leans towards a monitor, to press the call button. “They were college roommates, or something like that, then things must have gone to rot between them, judging from the way they jumped at each other’s throat. Now, they’re both calm, however, they have to be, since they’re both under house arrest for disturb of the peace, fighting and resisting arrest.” He looks at her, hesitant, beautiful. “At your place. I know it sounds crazy, but Joffrey still refuses to go to the Rock and your father accepted Tywin's presence and judge Catelyn Stark found it a perfect solution… wonder of wonder, it’s working. Maybe it's Mrs. Tyrell. She's short, but strong-willed. Jon says the blue house has never been that clean and tidy.”

She smiles, because it's funny notwithstanding all, and Jaime’s eyes go incredibly green. The green of a leaf kissed by dew. “Jon was here half an hour ago, with Tarly’s son and a sort of rugged giant who was complaining about another giant stuck at home because of a broken leg. The girls came visiting, too, with the most ridiculous gingerhead I’ve ever seen. Sorry, wench, I shouldn’t speak like that about a friend of yours, but that idiot really annoyed me, don't know why. Do you mind if I call you wench? I don’t know why, it’s stronger than me, I call you wench even when I…” He stiffens and stops caressing her, the room becoming suddenly so aseptic with its pale mint walls. “I-I was saying that everybody came, Brienne. Everybody.”

“Yes, unfortunately we’ve suffered a very colorful invasion of strays, thank to you miss Tarth.” Dr. Targaryen comes in, with his very unsettling, very scornful, lilac eyes. Someone might find him handsome, but not Brienne, not with that voice. He seems chewing glass every time he opens his mouth. “Nurse Pya had her trouble to get rid of that two absurd jerks who claimed to be, respectively, your brother and your sister, as if they hadn’t the Lannister and the Stark marks.” The white coat wrinkles his nose as he glances at Jaime. “You can stay, Lannister, or you can go washing yourself. The second option is highly recommended. In every case be silent: I really detest being bothered by the blah blah blah of caregivers while I'm working.”

Jaime's nostrils flare, but he doesn't leave, and Brienne feels strangely relieved. “Now, miss Tarth, here we are.” Dr. Targaryen sits and stares at her, still as a statue of ivory and silver. There something strange in his gaze, something... dead. “I suppose you're wondering why you're here, after having come for a banal dentist visit.” She nods, managing to get seated, a quick glimpse at the golden shadow leaned on the wall to be sure he's still there. “Nothing of special. Dr. Qyburn wasn't really an anesthetist but a sort of scientist pursuing unauthorized studies on the effects of methanphetamine on young, athletic bodies. A moron, he totally underrated the fact you're a woman, despite of your corporal mass, and caused you a nice hypertensive crisis, soon resolved by my brother, Dr. Rhaegar Targaryen, who boasts a deep, personal knowledge with drugs, since when Lyanna Stark dumped him and his dornish wife didn't reclaim him back.”

“An hypertensive crisis?”

The man snaps impatiently his fingers close to Brienne's ear. “Miss Tarth. I'm not the kind of doctor who enjoys mingling with patients or repeating a hundred times the same notion, so keep concentrated. A hypertensive crisis, yes, your blood pressure spiked up but you started bleeding from nose and gums like a slaughtered pig and that probably saved you from an aneurysm. Now, I'm the best oculist in all Westeros and I'm here to exclude other pleasant complications. Look at me and tell me what you see.”

 _A silver-haired robot_ , Brienne would like to answer, but he's still Dany's brother and she's distracted by the strange fixity of his gaze, until she understands. She's mirroring herself in a glass eye, a piece of art, a perfect imitation of a real one.

“Someone hurt you”, it's all she manages to say, getting rid of the oxygen tubes.

The man smiles, a satisfied, tested smile. “Not someone, Aerys, the king of our lovely home. First he hit me with a poker, then he made me thanking him because he had left me one eye. Aerys was such a thoughtful father and husband. My mother cried for a week when your cuddly pet cut his throat.” Brienne starts and the man's smile sharpens. “Tears of joy, for sure. However, I'll examine you better in my office, with all the instruments, but it seems your sight hasn't been damaged, miss Tarth. I'd have hated it, it would have been such a waste and you can trust me, about that.” The good eye shines, wickedly, lustily. “I'm quite ...fond of eyes. I'm a fervent admirer of them, a fetishist someone may say, and yours are quite extraordinary, Brienne.”

“Miss Tarth, for you, Vyseris”, growls a lion in the background.

The slender man stands up lazily and fluidly like a water snake, his lilac, hypnotic gaze fixed to Jaime, now. “Well, Lannister, you should recall it was my testimony to get you acquitted from all charges. I lied more than willingly, yet. Even Targaryens pay their debts, whenever they feel like it.” The doctor stops on the threshold, licking his lips. “Just between us, pretty boy, I love also green eyes and a nice threesome, occasionally. Just let me know when and where and how I've to dress.”

“Piss off, Vyseris.”

“Ok, ok, no need of being rude, I'm leaving. Just think about it, lovebirds, I can be very obliging, from time to time.”

The door closes and she feels immediately better. She reads tension and discomfort in the way Jaime's shoulders are set, as if he's ready to snap at the first sideways glance.

“It's time for me to go home, wench”, he says, in the end, and picks up his red jacket.

“Would you give me a ride?”, she blurts, surprised by herself. Jaime freezes, an unreadable expression softening his features, quickly emptying the space between them as she hints at leaving the bed. “I mean, I don't want to spend a minute more in this madhouse”, she explains, troubled by his silence and, more, by his sudden closeness. “If it doesn't change too much your plans or ...other. After all, we're neighbors.”

“Neighbors.” His is a hard smile, or maybe he's only tired. Very tired. “Of course, wench.”

***

A ton of signatures and papers later, they leave behind them the smell of disinfectant and the skeptical, angry look of Dr. Robin Ryger who wastes all the arrows of his eloquence to convince them not to quit the clinic. The car is the same, red and lavish, but today it's sunny. A gorgeous day of mid-autumn and she's quite drunk of colors, of beauty, of life – and when they pass the old bridge she'd swear she has already passed it with Jaime, while jogging together, the carpet of leaves crunching under their running shoes.

“Stop. Stop here, please,” she says, as she spots the place.

The car halts with no sound, and she climbs out, the breeze amazingly tepid on her cheeks.

“Brienne”, Jaime follows her among the trees, “what's wrong?” Did I...”

“Nothing's wrong”, her steps are a bit uncertain, now. She's still a bit dumb, maybe she won't find it again. Then, here it is, the weeping willow with its twisted branches. One of them is fallen into the glittering water, for the rest it's all identical to what she has been treasuring for years in her memory. “I just want you to see a thing.”

Swallowing, a lump closing her throat, Brienne points at the low branch where two children tied a small star of silver plastic, now become of a queer yellowish white, more or less the same stupid shade of her hair. “We used to come here, my brother Galladon and I, pretending this was our throne. I was four, when he and mother died, drowning in this same river, not far from here, and my father brought me back to Tarth, letting the blue house almost crumble on itself. But it's _my mother's_ house and _Gal's_ and _mine_ , not only _his_.”

It's warm, uncommonly warm and many insects have been deceived by the fake summer. With a swift move, Jaime catches a gnat before it can bite her scarlet neck. “I was seven when my mother, Johanna, went to the hospital for birthing Tyrion and never came back. Something went wrong during the C-section and they managed to save the babe, but not her. I was so angry and Cersei was even angrier.” His voice is low but so harsh that Brienne has to support herself to the trunk. “I had only Cersei at that time, and she had only me. It begun like that, sharing a bed, comforting each other, then it became... other. It didn't feel wrong, at all. Even now, I'm not repented and I'm not going to apologize about it. Or about anything else, and I've no clue of the reason I'm here wasting my time with an absurdly tall child when I'm in a dramatic need of a bath and of a dozen hours of sleep.”

The absurdly tall child swirls around the angry-eyed gentleman, and gets rid of her hoodie. The sneakers follow it soon on the stony shore. It's so hot.

“Wench, what the...?”

“I need a bath, me too, and I'll bet my chamber and my bathroom are occupied, by my father or by yours or by the both of them, for all I know.”

One of the band-aids on her arm is mulish like a Tarth and yields only after a good minute or two. She frowns, when she notices that Jaime is still there, underneath the willow. Not that there's so much to be seen, on her, so jeans and t-shirt are hastily left beside stockings and shoes, before her feet feel the smooth slickness of pebbles and sweet coolness of the water. In a few strides the river grows deep and green, allowing her to swim, finally.

Free.

For a while, at least.

“Never known someone stupid and stubborn like you, wench”, he hisses from a handful of inches, a drop falling from his brow just to get entrapped by the hairs of his cheek. Brienne's tempted of reaching out a hand and help it joining its brothers, below the grumpy surface of the river. “You've just left your hospital bed, you foolish, pampered and touchy...”

She plunges, paying no attention to his muscled legs, to resurface behind him. That drives Jaime crazy, judging from the amount of curses he dedicates to blind girls who should only thank the Gods for being still alive instead of being a great, but a great, pains in a poor man's ass.

 _A very tonic ass, even better than Renly's and Renly's a underwear model,_ Brienne thinks, gaining rapidly the opposite shore, glad that the pretty bottomed man can't see her tomato cheeks or insubstantial tits, under the useless pink bra.

“Wench, wait...” he spurts out. “Brie!” Jaime gurgles, struggling to keep his head above the water, and her body reacts before she can even think of reacting. Her strokes are efficient enough to make her reaching him in the middle of the river before he can drink too much, and she's strong enough to hold him, wrapping her arm around his chest and nesting his head on her shoulder.

“Cramps”, he wheezes, as he recovers a bit his breath.

“Ush, Jaime, it's ok, trust me, just breath and try to be less rigid. Like that, good. Trust me.”

***

The river murmurs, telling Brienne the sun is slowly disappearing in the west and soon they'll be cold – still, she hesitates before waking him.

He needed badly to rest, and he has practically fallen asleep while she was still massaging his thigh muscle to impede the cramps to come back. She hasn't slept a only minute, instead, covering him at the best of their possibilities with her hoodie and his jacket, trying to ignore the sensations caused by the contact of her goose-prickled skin with his bare torso, when she curled herself on him, because he was trembling, notwithstanding the warm day. He was really tired - exhausted, and not only for he has been at her bedside for two long days and two long nights.

The things Jaime has murmured her about Aerys storm in her mind and she hurts, feeling so hollow inside. He was only seventeen. The same age of Joff, the same inquietude the same fits of anger, and Dr. Aerys Targaryen, the heading light in the field of psychology, suggested the teen to cleanse himself with a curative... pyre. His family, for a start - the entire city, in the future, together, like a monarch and his sworn man.

She watches at Jaime, lingering on every detail she can steal from the weird position she has assumed and he's so impossibly beautiful and _quiet_ while asleep, as if they have just spoken of the weather, of their favorite pizza or color... it all seems even more absurd, and far, and she'd never want to break the spell. The willow says something stupid, urges her to get on her feet, and, in protest, Brienne closes her eyes for a heartbeat, no more, and he's dressed in white and gold, his beard longer, inviting her to come closer, telling her that blue is good on her.

It's Jaime to wake up for first, in the end, her hand still tangled in his hair - shame and guilt hitting her with such a sudden strength that she's barely able to breath and utter a few monosyllables before greeting him.

The moon is pale and small in the sky when Brienne arrives - afoot, alone - at the gate of her too big and too enlightened home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest n. 19bis : Tywin Lannister, alias Lord Tywin Lannister.  
> Upstairs, sharing Brienne's chamber with Brienne's father, and all Mrs. Tyrell's assumptions about that are clearly wrong.


End file.
